The Wine Dark Sea
by OmniHelix
Summary: They thought their love affair was over. A voyage of self-discovery could prove that wrong. Post "The Breakup"
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I own neither Glee nor its characters**. **Lyrics are from "My Lover's Gone", by Dido**

She stood in the hills overlooking the empty sea, at sunset. The day had been warm, but with the silent passing of the sun came a cool breeze, caressing her face, brushing the purple-blue anemones she had picked earlier and woven into the dark ringlets of her hair, and ruffling her long, simple white dress with the blue border, about her legs. There was the scent of pine, and, other than the wind, no sound but the murmur of the surf below.

The red sky in the West darkened the water, and the world seemed to heave a sigh as the dazzling brightness of day gave way to the soft, subdued twilight. She heaved her own sigh, wanting to say something, but there was no one there to hear her; _he _wasn't there to hear her, so the words remained unsaid, stillborn, much like the goodbye she imagined he wanted to say, but could not, as he slipped out the door before light.

**_My lover's gone__  
__His boots no longer by my door__  
__He left at dawn__  
__And as I slept I felt him go_  
**

They had fought the night before. He told her of his disgrace at washing out of the army, the accidental shooting, while she berated him for not telling her. Now he was gone, convinced he was unworthy of her, ending what they once had, for good this time. And what chilled her to the core was the fact she entertained, for just a moment, the possibility he was right, that everything they had worked for and dreamed in Lima was for naught, because he was incapable of seeing himself as being worthy of her love. She wanted to curse him for managing, for the very first time since they met, to make her doubt her love for him.

_**My lover's gone  
I know that kiss will be my last  
No more his song  
The tune upon his lips has passed  
I sing alone  
While I watch the ocean  
My lover's gone  
**_

There were mischievous spirits that haunted these islands, sylphs determined to weaken her resolve and get her to accept the premise that they had truly grown apart, never to be together again. She could hear their thin, vaporous laughter persistently hovering at the edges of her consciousness, like the whispers and murmuring of friends and family who somehow knew their love would never last. Like the hopes of those who wanted her to love them as she loved him.

Head bowed, she wept to think of him so lost that he couldn't bear to be near her. It hurt to envision him out there on the darkened sea, his ship at the mercy of the wind and tides, when he should be here, where he truly belonged. Yet this place—with her-was literally beyond his imagination right now.

She shivered in the cooling breeze, as the last light dimmed on the horizon, bringing the sea below to a dark blur, and transforming the sky above into a sea of stars. And in the face of the sylphic laughter, in defiance of it, another spirit—her own—asserted itself. She knew he was on his ship, out there, somewhere, and prayed he would find what he was looking for. She knew what it was, of course, and had known it since the day they met. And she had to accept that it was right and fitting he discover it on his own, just as he had said at the train station. And when he found it, she would be here, watching the ship with the blue sail and the golden star beating round the headland, bringing him back to her.

Until then, she told herself, she would ignore the concerned counsel of her friends and would-be suitors, and watch the horizon, as so many women had done before her. But she was human, mortal and frail, despite her indomitable will. She hoped-for both their sakes—that the wait would not be too long.

**XXXxxxx**

Rachel opened her eyes. She was alone in her bed. Her pillow was wet from tears she didn't quite remember shedding. Must have been that strange dream, she thought, touching her hair for flowers that weren't there.

She forced herself to get up and slip on a robe, even though it was still very dark out. From previous experience, Rachel knew the best thing for her to deal with a breakup was to get lost in some routine tasks, as disheartening as it was to realize how well she had learned that particular lesson.

Making coffee was something mindless she could do. It was Sunday, so she chose the nice Kenyan beans she had bought from Marge at The Arabica diner. Kurt wasn't up yet. But he really liked this coffee, so she filled the entire pot with water, ladling six scoops of beans into the electric grinder, and muffling its high-pitched whine with her robe. When it was done, she poured a cup, sat down, and simply sighed. Relationships shouldn't be this hard, she thought. But then, as if hearing something whispered in her ear, she sat up straight. No, most shouldn't be this hard, but maybe the great love affairs are. The epic ones. She smiled to herself, fondly remembering Jesse's comment. At the time she had simply been charmed by him saying that, attributing it to him just being gallant. But now, with all that had happened, Rachel wondered if maybe Jesse had actually been partially right. It wasn't that she _deserved_ epic romance, necessarily; it was that she had been _chosen_ somehow to be part of an epic love affair, one that required she and Finn acquire and develop sufficient self-knowledge to enable its fruition. There was this strange feeling that something very important, something beyond just the two of them, lay behind this.

It was her first inkling that being together with Finn meant more than just the rejoining of soul mates; their love was going to prove far greater than the sum of its parts. She just didn't know how. To find out would take patience.

And faith. And hope.


	2. Chapter 2

The repetition, the sheer numbing, mundane repetition of tasks in the tire shop was just what he needed: no decisions to be made, no comparisons, no judgments, no thinking of ways to make her happy, no responsibilities other than to the job at hand, no challenges, no wondering how he could be better for her, no striving to be better, no fretting about his dancing. And he could be alone. Burt and his mom were in DC most of the time, so he had the run of the place to himself. He told none of his friends, especially the ones in Glee Club, what he was doing or where he was. His life became a ritual, a kind of secular mass, living replaced by liturgy.

_**I'm going to rent myself a house  
In the shade of the freeway  
I'm going to pack my lunch in the morning  
And go to work each day  
And when the evening rolls around  
I'll go on home and lay my body down  
And when the morning light comes streaming in  
I'll get up and do it again  
Amen **_

He felt little shame anymore because benthic creatures like him had no further to sink. There was no need to look up; sunlight and nourishment filtered down to him from above, in just enough quantities for him to see and eke out a living. He felt no desire to rise above his station because there was no one to unrealistically remind him of what he once aspired to be, no one to get him to dare lift his dreams upward anymore. He hugged and embraced the sea floor like an ancient trilobite, armored from the creatures that lived gloriously above him.

It felt like freedom.

Occasionally, he would be reminded of who he used to be by the radio in the shop. It was always tuned to a classic rock station, and every now and then a song would trigger a memory of her, a memory of _them_, and for a few minutes he would forget who he was now, look up, and then realize how much she had changed, how sophisticated and chic she was compared to his wretched, inept bumpkinry, and he would cast his gaze down again where it belonged. He had forfeited the right to be proud for her anymore. Fortunately, he toiled in the far corner of the shop, and none of his fellow workers saw him weeping, tightening lug nuts and balancing tires as if the work were a communion.

Sometimes the memories tempted him to slide into a pathetic hubris, where he actually commended himself for ending it with Rachel, and freeing her to become the glorious creature that she was now. But even that raised him only a tiny bit up from the comfortable mud, and he found himself sinking back, when the truth, that he had not been noble at all, but instead simply didn't deserve to love her, finally sank in.

It felt like he was finally accepting the truth about himself.

For a brief time he actually felt content. The constant war between what he thought he wanted and for what he was capable seemed over. His life was, finally, in a kind of equilibrium; an equilibrium where he was at the absolute bottom, a state which required no energy to maintain. It was a state in which he had no dreams to be dashed, no aspirations in which to invest, no more disappointments to absorb. It was the state he deserved.

It felt like he was at peace.

There was one problem with all of this, however: he still loved her. It was one of those essential facts about him, woven into his very nature, almost down to the DNA. His love for Rachel could neither be buried, nor rationalized away. It mattered not that he never deserved her love in return. He would love her for the rest of his life, even if it meant dying alone, never having loved again. The honor of loving her was enough.

_**I want to know what became of the changes **_

_**We waited for love to bring **_

_**Were they only the fitful dreams **_

_**Of some greater awakening **_

The equilibrium he thought he had achieved did not last long. A curious property of the chemistry of love is the way it forces one to look up. No matter how content one is with the mud, love eventually catalyzes the aspirations upward, making it impossible for one to resist wanting to become better. Love builds a kind of spiritual buoyancy, requiring an enormous amount of active energy to suppress. Finn's love for Rachel slowly and quietly made it more and more difficult to remain where he was; the only way he could prevent wanting more from himself was to deny that love. Which was impossible. The result was a profound restlessness within him. He could no longer pretend to want to be the insular, emotional hermit he thought was his lot.

_**Are you there? **_

_**Say a prayer for the pretender **_

_**Who started out so young and strong **_

_**Only to surrender **_

It began with the glum realization that he had surrendered twice. The first time it was to the idea that both of them needed to reach their dreams on their own. That decision had placed both his life and Rachel's in free fall, but she continued upward due to her talent and drive while he fell away, like the shed skin of a lizard. Tragically, he surrendered again to a misplaced sense of inadequacy leading to where he was now, anonymously toiling in his stepfather's tire shop, almost exactly where most of his friends had predicted he'd end up.

She never did, he thought one night, trying to sleep. Why she had such faith in him seemed a mystery. Why couldn't she see him for what he was, the quintessential Lima Loser, as everyone else did, as he did? Alone in the house, windows open, he listened to the sweet sound of insects in the cooling autumn air. Somehow, his love for her had lifted him just enough from the mud to accept the idea that Rachel saw something in him which he simply couldn't see. He wondered what that might be, and how he might find out.

And, for the first time in months, he drifted easily into sleep.

**A/N: Lyrics are from Jackson Browne's "The Pretender". And yes, dear readers, there is no such word as "bumpkinry". But there should be. Many thanks to those kind enough to review. **


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't know why he accepted the invitation from Bob, one of his co-workers to check out Hensley's , a new bar in Lima with this great house band, originally from Chicago, called Leuce. But he was feeling restless, and showed up on Friday night.

Hensley's was dark, and larger than it looked. There was a stage with what looked like a fairly decent sound system, and a big bar at the other end, with lots of tables in between and a dance area. The crowd was different than what Finn expected, mostly hipsters and Bohemians. Maybe this band's music attracted them.

"Damn, Huddy," Bob said, "Its weird seeing you without coveralls."

Finn laughed, sat down at their table, and ordered a PBR draw. He looked nothing like he did in New York when he broke up with Rachel. His hair was now long and shaggy, he sported a dark beard, and wore a black t-shirt, jeans and desert boots, with an old, brown leather flight jacket. Bob looked happy because now they were attracting some female attention from the bar. Not that Bob wasn't good-looking, mind you, but he was nowhere near six-three and built like an ex-quarterback.

A couple of girls came over and asked if they could join them. Bob said sure, while Finn, more interested in the band, which was setting up, barely nodded. Besides, as soon as the girls found out they just worked at a tire shop, much of the magic was lost anyway, and, to Finn's relief, they found an excuse to move on.

"What the hell, " Bob protested, "you could have been a bit more civil."

Finn shrugged. "It's four days til pay day, dude," he said, matter-of-factly, "How many rounds of drinks for those two do you think the two of us could afford, let alone dinner?" Bob had to glumly agree. "Anyways, I'm here to listen to this band you've been talking about."

The guys at the shop knew very little about Finn, other than he was the owner's stepson. He kept pretty much to himself. Rumors were inevitable. One of the shop workers heard a girl had broken his heart in New York. Another whispered he'd been dishonorably discharged from the army.

Bob was a couple of years older, happy-go-lucky, aimless. Despite his blue collar job, he dressed more like a college kid, old polo shirts and jeans, with dirty sneakers. He was one of the few in the shop interested in music, and liked talking to Finn when he was receptive, which wasn't often.

"So, what's your story, Huddy? The guys have heard all kinds of things about you."

"They're all true," Finn said, deadpan. He knew the rumors going around, and didn't give a tinker's damn what people thought, as long as they left him alone. And if they thought he'd been kicked out the army for something nefarious, maybe they'd keep leaving him alone.

Bob chuckled. "So you were kicked out of the army for constantly going

AWOL to be with some girl in New York? A girl that broke your heart?"

Wow. He hadn't heard that variation. But he liked it.

"Sort of," Finn answered, "Only she didn't break my heart." He paused for a beat. "We broke each other's." No harm in throwing in a kernel of truth here and there. Then he laughed. "Where do you guys come up with this stuff?"

Bob shrugged. "Hell if I know."

The setup was finished. There were six musicians. The drummer was burly, with long, blonde hair. Both guitarists were nerdy-looking and dark haired, as was the bass player. There was a tall guy with an electric violin and a shaved head. Fronting them was a small, dark-haired, intense-looking girl, in a black leather jacket, leggings, and riding boots. Even from his table Finn could see bottomless black eyes, accentuated by smoky makeup. Those eyes swept the suddenly restless crowd. "Keep your shirts on, kids," she sneered, in a low, raspy voice, "Great art takes time." Her gaze rested on Finn for a moment before snapping up as the drummer began counting out.

Leuce (she pronounced it "loo-kah") was surprisingly tight. They played covers from a lot of styles, from the Stones to Nirvana, even an obscure King Crimson instrumental featuring the violinist, the second guitarist doubling on keyboards, and the singer switching to sundry percussion. The crowd was very receptive; Finn suspected many had taken illicit smoke breaks before the set.

Finn thought the singer's range was phenomenal, from a seductive, husky whisper to a sustained roar. He found himself instinctively comparing her voice to Rachel's, but it was clear she had none of Rachel's purity or control. Both of them, however, had that ineffable ability to command an audience, an authoritative stage presence.

On the last song of the set, Leuce's singer demonstrated that she had actually been holding back all night. She lost the jacket, revealing a tight white tank top underneath and generous curves for someone so petite. Her hair, once shiny and straight, was now in strings from sweat and thrashing. The lead guitarist started off alone, with a slow, ominous march, then the singer, writhing while holding onto the microphone, began to moan the lyrics.

_**I can hardly wait**_

_**I can hardly wait**_

_**I can hardly wait**_

_**I can hardly wait**_

Suddenly the band exploded into a roar behind her, as she began bobbing to a slow, but powerful beat, her voice full of longing, laced with lust and menace:

_**It's been so long**_

_**I've lost my taste**_

_**Say angel come**_

_**Say lick my face**_

_**Let fall your dress**_

_**I'll play the part**_

_**I'll open this mouth wide**_

_**Eat your heart**_

The last line was delivered as a wicked promise with the licking of lips. And the band fell quiet again, but for the single guitar and quiet high hat:

_**I can hardly wait**_

_**I can hardly wait**_

_**I can hardly wait**_

_**I can hardly wait**_

Finn was swept away by the visceral power of the band's second entrance, the electric violin wailing, her lips curled back in furious want, eyes rolled up into her skull, agonizingly riding the crest of the band's irresistible wave:

_**Lips cracked dry**_

_**Tongue blue burst**_

_**Say angel come**_

_**Say lick my thirst**_

_**It's been so long**_

_**I've lost my taste**_

_**Here Romeo**_

_**Make my waters break**_

She ended the song with just the guitar, decorated by a hypnotic, metronomic wood block, chanting with dazed obsession:

_**In my glass coffin**_

_**I await.**_

_**In my glass coffin**_

_**I await. **_

_**In my glass coffin**_

_**I await.**_

_**In my glass coffin**_

_**I await… **_

She faded out, trembling in exhaustion, as the crowd sat for a moment, wrung out. A few tentative claps, then full-throated applause and whistles. There was no encore.

"So what do you think?" Bob asked, with a knowing smile.

"Amazing," Finn said, honestly. He hadn't had this much fun in a while. He looked up in surprise. The singer had come over to their table, a Heineken bottle in her hand, and hugged Bob.

"Oh, didn't I tell you?" Bob winked, "This is my cousin, Callie Magissa. Callie, this is Finn Hudson."

He felt her black eyes take him in, and she smiled, extending her hand. "Pleased to meet you," he said, shaking it, "That last song was amazing."

"Thanks," she said, leaning back in her chair, looking drained.

When she was onstage, Finn couldn't help noticing her disturbing resemblance to Rachel, but up close, he could see it was superficial. She was somewhat taller, body curvier, her face sharper somehow, maybe because of how it came to a finer point at the chin, with a less prominent nose. Rachel's browner eyes and wider smile radiated energy, enthusiasm, and, yes, love. Callie's face was more seductive, those coal-black eyes and fuller lips pulling everything inward, outwardly giving nothing. In just those few moments, Finn already felt a net energy loss.

They chatted for a few minutes about music. Finn complimented the drummer, and in the course of the conversation mentioned that he played drums himself. Callie's eyes flicked to her cousin, who shrugged, as if to say he didn't know. Then she turned to Finn.

"Listen. Our drummer is taking a few months leave. He's going backpacking in Nepal with his girlfriend, says it's some kind of spiritual journey. Whatever." She laughed, and Finn could tell her remark wasn't meant unkindly. "Anyway, we're auditioning drummers next week for a temporary gig. You interested?"

Finn felt a stirring inside. He once thought making music was not an option for him anymore, because he had become used to associating it with Rachel, as if they were tied together by it. Maybe that wasn't true anymore. Maybe he could still work on it without her. He almost gasped just thinking about not being with her; the wound hadn't yet healed. But he recovered enough to simply nod at Callie.

"Cool," she said, getting up. "I gotta get back to the guys. It was great seeing you cuz, and a pleasure, Finn. Hope to see you at the audition. It's here Wednesday, around 3. Can you get off work?"

Finn nodded. "Sure."

She left, and Bob high fived him. For the first time since he had been back, the mud was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

He sipped his beer and grinned.

**A/N: Lyrics are from "Hardly Wait", by PJ Harvey. The performance described was inspired by actress/singer Juliette Lewis's performance of the song in the film "Strange Days". **


	4. Chapter 4

Her muscles ached, deliciously. Dance class was over, but she decided to stay after, taking advantage of the rarely empty rehearsal space, working on perfecting some moves. She saw the aches as encouraging steps towards her future success. They meant she was pushing herself harder and harder. They were also reminders of just how close she had come to blowing it.

Rachel knew her greatest weakness was her insecurity. Whenever someone pushed those buttons, she was almost guaranteed to make a rash decision. Her outburst at her dance professor almost resulted in her career ending before it even began, and her talk with Cassandra afterward convinced her this was something she had to focus on eliminating. She saw a sign in a small shop that said, "Do Not Confuse Effort With Results". It went up above her mirror, and became her personal mantra. Insults and rude comments from instructors became insignificant. All that mattered was that she took every criticism seriously and applied it until her work met her professors' expectations. In a way it was a relief; she didn't feel she had to learn everything on her own, as she had to do in Lima. Rachel could actually place her trust in the faculty of NYADA to help get her where she wanted to go. After all, they were getting paid to prepare _her_.

Cassandra was the first to notice a change. Rachel no longer bristled at her nickname, but instead began to embrace it. One class she showed up wearing a leotard with the actor David Schwimmer's face on it, causing Cassandra to burst out laughing and, much to the rest of the class's chagrin, give her the best tango partner to work with that day.

His name was Patrick. He was taller than Brody, with a different build, more like a ballet dancer, lithe and sinewy. He was even better-looking, too, with a mass of dark, curly hair and classic, fair, Irish skin. And, much to Rachel's relief, Patrick was coolly professional when they danced together. This was critical, she realized. In show business she could expect to be paired professionally with very good looking men, and it was essential that she be able to keep it that way. Brody couldn't do that with her. She liked him very much, he was funny and kind, but couldn't prevent his deeper feelings for her from showing when they danced.

Outside of class, Patrick was also kind, but, much to Rachel's dismay, proceeded to ruin everything by confessing to her he might be having feelings for her as well.

"What the hell, Kurt," she complained, mystified, one Friday pizza night in their apartment. "There are much better-looking girls in the class. Why me?"

"Rachel, dear," Kurt tried to explain to her, "You are single now, talented and beautiful, not jaded, and, surprisingly, not as self absorbed as you might think. In other words, you are a catch."

"You know I'm not looking to hook up with anybody," she said, then very gently, "Just like you aren't, either."

Later on that night, Kurt joined her in her bed and cuddled.

"What is it about our men?" he whispered.

"They're special, we both know that," she whispered back, "And they're both part of something bigger involving you and me. We have to be strong for them."

"You've told Patrick and Brody this, right? "

"Yes, but I know neither of them think it will ever work out between Finn and me. And they don't think I will be able to wait. And Kurt?" She felt cold at that moment, and clung to him desperately. "There are days when I don't think I can, either."

"I know," Kurt said soothingly, "Ditto for me."

In the dark, she sighed. "I'm so glad you're here with me."

Rachel paused to appraise herself in the rehearsal room mirror. Her eyes began to see what the men in her life already saw and appreciated: toned body; flawless, glowing skin; lustrous hair; dark eyes. She thought of Finn's body, and how it felt against her, and, without thinking, began letting that feeling inform the moves she had been practicing. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, her movement acquired a different kind of fluidity, a grace that was almost feral in its intensity. Her breathing came faster, this time not just due to the exertion. Pain was forgotten, her sweat delicious now, each upcoming move a natural part of the flow that didn't have to be mentally planned beforehand, because Rachel had finally let her instincts take the lead. She moved faster, each attempt more sure and sinuous than the last.

Eventually, she stopped, gasping, energy spent, and noticed Cassandra standing in the doorway, watching intently. Embarrassed, Rachel said nothing, and just walked over to her bag for a towel.

"Hey Schwimmer," Cassandra called out. Rachel looked at her. "Maybe you can start thinking about adding Evita to your repertoire now."

"You think so?" she asked, wiping her face.

"You finally looked comfortable with your body," Cassandra noted. "Who were you thinking about? Weston?" She said his name like a dirty word.

Rachel didn't answer. It was none of her goddamned business.

Cassandra laughed. "It doesn't matter," she said, waving a hand, "It could be Justin Beiber for all I care. Just keep it up." With that she turned and left.

Alone again, Rachel relished the feelings she just had while dancing. Her body missed his body, yes, but she was encouraged it was thoughts of him, and no one else, that were helping her make it through.

The good feeling didn't last, however. She snorted bitterly. Make it through what? Waiting for Finn to find himself? What if he found himself and still didn't want to be with her? What if he found somebody else? Would she ever be able to find anybody else?

Rachel prepared to go home, convinced that the inner dialogue she just had was the reason so many operas had mad scenes.

_**XXXxxxx **_

She liked the bumblebees best. There was this glade in the hills overlooking the harbor, an open spot in the trees, covered in grass and wildflowers. It was the perfect spot from which to sit and look out to sea, in hopes of catching a glimpse of any ships rounding the headland. On warm days, hundreds of butterflies and droning bumblebees attended the flowers, a delight not only to her but also to the wood nymphs in the forest. The bees buzzed lazily among the blossoms, and, as she watched them humbly going about their work and drank in the air, fragrant and warm, swore she could hear the faint laughter of the nymphs, amused at her ritual of watching and waiting.

She understood the nymph's amusement. Did she not have suitors in the village, men with whom she could drink and make merry, instead of holding this lonely vigil, awaiting the return of a man whom everyone knew to be lost at sea?

"I wonder myself," she said aloud to the trees, and smiled at the lighthearted whisperings and laughter in return. She took heart knowing that she truly wasn't as lonely as the situation warranted, that there was this almost delicious sense of anticipation of something about to happen, something important, that would erase the pain of separation forever.

Best of all, no sacrifice to the oracle was required in order for her to feel it. That had to mean something.


	5. Chapter 5

The crowd was restless. Finn figured the stale air and the lousy furnace –it was too warm, even for late fall-made for some uncomfortable customers. He twiddled with his stool, and flexed his foot on the bass pedal as the others got ready. Emil, the violinist plugged in and gave him an easy smile, while Jack, the bassist, stood silently, running something through his head. The guitarists Fred and Ernie stood, ready as ever. Cassie finally appeared, in a silvery, very short dress and heels, with a tambourine. She gave him a wink.

"Ladies and Gentlemen," the owner of the bar intoned, "please give a warm welcome to our house band, Leuce". There was scattered applause, with a few regulars asking where Ben—the absent drummer-was. Callie stared out at them.

"Hi," she said, in her dark voice. "It's nice to see you all here tonight. Some of you may have noticed we have a new drummer. Please give it up for Finn Hudson, who is being nice enough to fill in while Ben's gone." Some applause, and Finn waved and smiled. "You're in for a treat, because, as you will find out, unlike Ben, Finn can actually sing and play." He stood up and bowed. "In fact," Cassie said, grinning, "He's going to sing our first number."

The audition at the bar was easier than he imagined it would be. The whole band, minus Ben, was there, ready to play. Callie asked him if he was okay using Ben's kit to audition. Ben's was fine, he said, but he would be using his own kit after that. They gave him a few minutes to adjust, and when he was ready, he looked at them expectantly.

"Let's start with 'Honkey Tonk Women'", Callie said, "get you warmed up." That was fine with him, counting off, then easing into the familiar, solid beat without any trouble. His tension fell away as his muscles warmed to the task, and Finn found himself singing the chorus as well as the others, which earned him a very curious glance from Callie.

Everybody seemed satisfied with him so far. Callie was smiling and said, "Listen, there's a song we've been working on that could really use a decent male vocalist—she waved at the others dismissively. Can you sing and play at the same time?" He replied he'd give it a try. He also noticed Callie looking both relieved and thoughtful. They tinkered with some microphones, and he found the most comfortable position for him was to have a mike slightly above his right shoulder. Emil handed him the lyrics and music. It was Peter Murphy's "I'll Fall With Your Knife". Finn sang a few bars, cocking his head upwards and to the right, while working a beat as well.

Jack suddenly laughed. "You look like Levon Helm," he said.

"That's a hell of a lot of praise, dude, but thanks."

Callie liked what she heard, and excused herself with the others to confer.

"Let's run through this song and the rest of this weekend's set, and if you're good, you have the gig."

The crowd fell silent. Fred started the song off for a few bars with a chugging beat on his slightly-distorted guitar, above Jack's steady bass. Finn began singing to just their accompaniment:

_**To the crowd**_

_**To the world**_

_**You were so dry**_

_**And with a token bird I made**_

_**Sent it to fly**_

_**Right to your side**_

_**With a broken wing you sail**_

_**Oh like winter in July**_

_**A barren river wide**_

_**I'll pray for the flood**_

_**To wash on you**_

_**It's here, I'll be with you**_

He began to lay in a steady backbeat on his drums, locked into Jack's bassline, giving the song an irresistible rhythm, as Ernie laid in, Callie played tambourine, and Emil simply swayed and clapped softly. Finn hummed "oh, oh, oh" for a few bars, then took off into the mystic with the next verse:

_**Well if the birds**_

_**Can reach the sky**_

_**To this land**_

_**I'll be with you**_

_**Till the sun bursts from your side**_

_**With my hands**_

_**I reach to you**_

_**When you think your chance is passing by**_

_**When you blow your moon away**_

_**I'll bleed like the reed**_

_**Fall with your knife**_

_**It's here I'll be with you**_

He was uplifted by the rhythm and lyrics, and as he sang and played, her face came to him, as it always did when he was involved in things that he loved, because he loved her. Tears streaming down his face, the audience swaying, the band dropped down to just Frank and Jack again, as Finn repeated the first verse:

_**To the crowd**_

_**To the world**_

_**You were so dry**_

He eased into the backbeat again, always locked in to Jack's rock solid bass, watching the audience lost in the song, wanting to kiss her so badly:

_**And with a token bird I made**_

_**Sent it to fly**_

_**Right to your side**_

_**With a broken wing you sail**_

_**Oh like winter in July**_

_**A barren river wide**_

_**I'll pray for the flood**_

_**To wash on you**_

_**It's here, I'll be with you**_

There arose a glorious crescendo, the entire house entranced, the band humming a chorus of oh's, Frank stretching out the lead, Ernie carefully tracking him, Jack locking it down, Callie and Emil dancing. Finn lost himself, almost chanting:

_**It's here, I'll be with you,**_

_**Oh I'll fall,**_

_**I'll fall, I'll fall, I'll fall I'll fall, I'll fall, I'll fall, I'll fall, oh**_

It was too good to stop. Finn, with a nod of his head, signaled the band to keep going, the crowd swaying, as he remembered her lips, sweet and soft. He didn't want it to end. But eventually it did, to an incredible roar and Callie looking amazed, pointing at him.

"Finn Hudson, kids!" she said, "Hot God damn!"

He stood and bowed, toweling his face.

**XXXxxx**

Some of the band went to another bar. Finn stayed, sitting at a table with a beer. It felt kind of peculiar. Yes, it was exhilarating, playing with a great band, and soaking up the appreciative applause, but it was also vaguely disquieting, like a stirring up of the mud on the bottom. He had grown comfortable with his sojourn there, and wasn't sure how to feel about all of this, especially when it dragged up feelings for Rachel as powerful as the ones he felt when he sang that song. A couple of customers came over to say how much they enjoyed the set. He chatted with them for a few minutes, but eventually was left alone.

Callie surprised him by showing up and sliding into a chair, clinking bottles.

"Ya did good, Hudson!" she said, taking a sip and settling into her chair. She looked exhausted, hair damp from sweat.

"Yep." Finn replied. "I thought you were going with the rest of the guys."

She shook her head, lamenting, "Too damned tired." She was quiet for a moment. He felt her gaze.

"What?"

The bar lighting caused the shimmery dress she was wearing to cast a kind of aura about her, as if she were in soft focus. Callie crossed her legs, making him acutely aware of the dress riding up her (very enticing) thighs. Her left arm draped the back of her chair, almost nonchalantly, but her eyes, deep and dark, despite the glittering light from the dress, were fixed on him. He couldn't quite read her look. Perhaps it was the fairness of her skin, set off by the utter darkness of her eyes that made her visage seem somewhat less than open, even mildly inscrutable. He felt a combination of attraction and caution. She hadn't shown any open interest in him other than a couple of appreciative looks, which he was used to getting from women on occasion. He had definitely noticed how pretty Callie was, and she probably knew he did as well. She was currently unattached (from Emil). He just wasn't sure what she felt. It made him uneasy, reminding him, vaguely, of Quinn.

"Who were you singing to?" she asked.

Finn gave her a sheepish look. "That obvious, huh?"

"Uh huh." She smiled despite a faint shadow that passed over her face. A twinge of disappointment at being right, perhaps?

"Just someone," he lied.

"Yeah, right." She called his bluff, rolling her eyes. "Bawling like a baby on stage. You can't tell me it's over 'just someone'." She said it good-naturedly, without trying to make fun of him. He liked that.

"Maybe I'm just a sensitive guy."

"I call bullshit," she countered, but gently. "Not that you're insensitive, mind you. But don't worry;" she smiled and leaned forward, hoping to put him at ease, "I'm not going to pry. Just know that I know."

"Thanks, I appreciate that."

She pretended to look at her beer bottle, but Finn caught her giving him a sidelong glance.

"Okay, okay!" she admitted. "I do kinda want to pry."

He liked seeing a chink in the ultracool stage persona, revealing the nice, but very hip, twenty-year-old woman who worked at a grocery store during the day. But he saw her bring the persona right back up, as if readying to be told to mind her own business.

Oh, what the hell.

"I fell in love with Rachel when I was fifteen, and we ended it in New York a couple of months ago." That was all he could truly get out. She sensed his inability to discuss it, and nodded slowly, looking at her beer bottle again. The stage Callie was lowered again.

"I'm sorry," she said, honestly.

"It's okay."

They spent the next hour talking about music, drinking beer, and relaxing. He liked her. Callie was smart, musically very savvy, and didn't seem to try and make too much more of their conversation than there was. He hadn't enjoyed a simple conversation like this with a woman in a long time. In the end, she had to excuse herself, saying she had an early shift at the grocery store. He said he'd be here tomorrow night to do it all over again. She waved as she left, and embarrassed him by looking back over her shoulder just as he happened to be appreciating her legs. He shrugged sheepishly, and she laughed.

Finn ordered another beer. The night had been a mixed blessing. He was exhilarated by performing again, reveling in the aches in his arms, the rawness in his throat. But he realized the path he was on would conjure up Rachel's ghost more often than not. Could he eventually embrace her memory and let it inform his music-making, as he just did tonight?

There was only one way to find out.

**A/N: Lyrics are from Peter Murphy's "I'll Fall With Your Knife". **


	6. Chapter 6

Washington Square Park was cold in the bright autumn sunshine: a perfect metaphor for her relationship with Brody Weston, Rachel thought. Ever since the breakup, she had been friendly, but not as affectionate towards him as she had been. He said he understood, but that was the problem. He always seemed to understand. When Rachel explained she couldn't pursue a romantic relationship with him because she wanted to give Finn more time, he agreed to back off too readily, in her opinion; it unnerved her. It was as if he knew Finn wouldn't come back, that all he had to do was bide his time. It smacked faintly of disrespect towards someone he didn't even know.

So she had been cool towards him lately.

From her bench, Rachel could see him moving towards her through the crowd, carrying two servings of cotton candy, one blue, one red. She waved, and he sat, handing her the blue one.

"Thanks!" she beamed, pulling some off and closing her eyes in ecstasy as the sweetness flushed her taste buds. He grinned.

"My pleasure," he said, but didn't eat any himself. He absently twirled it in front of him as they sat in silence, watching the early-afternoon crowd. Finally, Brody asked, "So…why did you ask to meet me here?"

"I like your company," she said, honestly. "Can we go for a walk? "

She wanted him to understand some things. How what she had with Finn was no mere high school romance. How she resented people insisting that it was.

"I never have," he protested.

"No, you haven't," she agreed, "But frankly, the way you came onto me with a full-court press, while at the same time insisting you were going to respect my boundaries tells me you didn't think much of it."

A flash of anger.

"I didn't invite myself to dinner, you know."

She nodded, and held up her hand.

"I know. I don't blame you for that." The shame she felt over that horrible night made her cringe.

"You couldn't help how you felt, Rachel." He softened. They stood at a trash can and deposited the remains of the candy. He tried reaching out to touch her cheek, but she pulled back at the last instant, then stopped, apologetically.

"Wow," she said, "that was rude of me. I'm sorry." He simply nodded. "You were my first friend here in New York, when I really needed one. But that night told me I was changing much too fast for my nature to catch up, if that makes any sense."

Brody raised his eyebrows. "What is your nature?" They started to walk again, and Rachel reassuringly took his arm.

"My nature is to listen to my heart," she said, the asked, "Did you ever take physics in high school?"

Brody shook his head, wondering where that came from.

"In physics you learn about resonant frequencies. A resonant frequency is the frequency that drives a system to vibrate at its maximum." She noted some confusion on his part.

"Don't get hung up on it. Suffice it to say that here are certain things that make my heart resonate at its maximum."

"Like what?"

"Finn and I broke up in our junior year." It still surprised Rachel how much it still hurt thinking about that. "It was the year we did original songs for Regionals and Nationals. My song was chosen for Regionals, and it was written for Finn to let him know how I felt about us being apart. I even told him to pay attention because I meant every word. He told me afterwards that listening to that song started him on the path back to me." She felt her throat tighten. It had been easier to think about that performance after they had reunited, and had been so much in love. Now, it just hurt again.

"When we went to New York for Nationals, " she continued, "Finn tried to get back together with me, but I resisted because being in New York only reminded me where I was eventually going for good. I loved him, but I wasn't going to let that prevent me from pursuing my dream here." Tears sprung to her eyes thinking about all that had happened since. She paused to take a moment with a tissue. Brody waited.

"Then he and I performed the song he wrote. It was about us."

"_Finn_ wrote that song?" Brody inadvertently let slip, 'The one in the video, 'The Kiss that Missed?'"

"Yeah, _Finn_ wrote that," Rachel glared, irritated at his tone, "And what's more, it made my heart _resonate,_ made it _sing_, so much so that I agreed to marry him a few months later." She angrily poked Brody in the chest. "That single act of artistic creation said more to me about what we meant to each other than anything else before or since." Suddenly she stopped, the anger draining from her in a flash, replaced by a sadness so profound it made her shoulders sag. He saw misery reigning in her eyes as she said, "My heart resonates from that song still, to this day."

"What if he never comes back?" He had to say what was on his mind, but honestly, he didn't expect her reply:

"Can you write songs? Songs that could resonate with me like his?"

He looked taken aback. In one stroke, the balance had shifted. She was now the more experienced, more mature one.

He wasn't sure if he liked the slow smile gathering on her face.

**XXXxxxxxx **

The Western horizon was broken by blocks of cloud, purplish-orange from the setting sun. The sea was a dark metallic turquoise, and the soft breeze carried the memories of his last song to her, as if played by a god.

She squeezed some wine from a skin bag into her mouth, wishing it were him she tasted, yearning for his lips on hers, his gasps of pleasure. Her body arched at the memory of his touch, and the ghost of his desire, thrust deep inside her brought her to her knees.

She looked up, in supplication. Had not the two of them suffered enough, oh gods, she pleaded. Surely their suffering could elicit some tiny scintilla of mercy, a sign, perhaps, that there was still hope?

Her humble, agonized prayer, borne on wings upon the wind, did not remain unheeded.


	7. Chapter 7

The gigs that weekend went well, he thought, replacing a tire on Monday morning. Fred and Ernie were really stretching their guitars around Finn's beat, giving the Peter Murphy song a more infectious rhythm, and he loved playing with Jack, who was an instinctive bassist, making sure he and Finn worked together to get the audience moving.

"So," Bob said, walking over, "Callie says you've fit in pretty well. The guys all like and trust you. Even Emil." He produced a sly wink.

Finn looked at him blankly, and Bob laughed.

"Emil's fine with you and Callie," he explained.

"Ah, well that's good to know," Finn grunted, pulling a wheel off. "If anything happens between us, that is. She's pretty cool."

Bob nodded, smiling.

"Well the reason I mentioned it is, Callie thinks you're cool, too, and asked me to ask you if she could have lunch with you today. It's her day off."

"She couldn't ask me herself? Am I that scary? " Finn was amused.

"Jesus, Huddy, think about it. We've been working together for what, two months now, and even I barely know anything about you. She asked me about you and I couldn't tell her much, so she didn't want to risk appearing too forward."

Finn did think about it. Part of him wanted to turn her down; he could always say it was to keep their relationship professional, when he really was simply afraid of moving on. He had just broken up with the only woman he had ever loved, for heaven's sake. But he was nineteen years old, and looking at his fifth month of solitude, not to mention celibacy. Callie was pretty, smart and nice. Maybe a change would do him good.

"Sure," he said, finally, and saved Bob the trouble by texting Callie directly, asking where she'd like to meet and when. A nice café. Noon. Finn chewed on an idea. Work was light today, so he asked for a half-day off, and suggested meeting at one so he could get decently cleaned up beforehand. He got a smiley face in return.

Finn left the shop at noon and went straight home. He took a long shower, scrubbing himself—especially his hands-like he used to do before going out with Rachel after he had put in a shift in at the shop. It wasn't that he expected to be manhandling Callie anytime soon. It was something he did to honor Rachel , because she loved it when he made the extra effort to be clean for her, as she was for him. They inspired each other that way, to be better people. He figured it was a good rule to follow in life, even if she wasn't in his life anymore. Getting dressed in a simple white shirt and jeans, he realized he liked wanting to be better. Maybe he always had, but just forgot he did for awhile.

At first he thought he was late, because Callie was already seated at a table. About to apologize, Finn suddenly couldn't speak. It could have been Rachel sitting there: Dark hair, dark eyes, black turtleneck, short red-and-black plaid skirt, black tights and low heels. She looked up, concerned.

"Are you okay, Finn?"

The urge to turn and run was nearly overwhelming. But it turned out he was made of sterner stuff.

"Yeah, yeah…I'm fine." Might as well be honest. "But you should probably see this." He fished a picture of Rachel from his wallet and showed it to her.

"Holy crap," Callie mused, then looked up apprehensively. "Maybe this wasn't a good idea…"

"No, no, no," he said, putting the picture back. "Callie, you're a completely different person." She started to say something but he interrupted. "See? I called you by your name, not hers."

"Okay..." She sounded dubious, but remained in her seat, eventually asking, "Is this as weird for you as it is for me?"

"Probably," he joked, and she visibly relaxed.

The waiter came and they ordered, iced tea for her and black coffee for him. They both decided to try the steak sandwich, hers medium-rare, his medium. He made sure to point out that Rachel was a vegan, and Callie giggled.

Callie recovered from that initial shock quickly, immediately jumping into a continuation of their conversation about music in the bar. She liked progressive rock, with a seasoning of 80's and 90's music; he preferred the classic stuff.

Finn let that conversation end naturally, and then asked, "So, why did you ask me to lunch?"

She tried to bluster her way out of it.

"What, I can't suggest we have lunch and conversation, just because?"

"Is that why? Just because? I'm cool with that."

She looked down at the table for a moment, and when she raised her face again he noticed that, behind her outwardly friendly expression was a touch, just a trace, really, of the inscrutable look he had seen her wear before.

"I like your company," she replied. Her voice sounded warm, though, and under his amused encouragement, she admitted, "And back at Hensley's you mentioned having written and performed a song. I wanted to ask if you'd mind looking over one I've been working on, back at my place. "

"What about the others? Have they seen it?"

She shook her head. "Just Emil. He has the most musical training of all of us, but isn't much of a writer, I'm afraid. And he gives lousy feedback. The others weren't interested, either."

"Sounds like fun," Finn said. "I have the rest of the day off. You want to start after we finish here?"

Callie shook her head, apologetically. "I have to run a few errands beforehand," she said. "How about coming over at five—I'll cook dinner."

"Why don't I bring dinner?" Finn suggested. "Is pizza okay? That way we can spend our time working." She happily agreed.

During the meal he learned a bit more about her. Her name was short for Calypso. "My parents are big Harry Belafonte fans," she explained, singing, "Day-o! Day-o! Daylight come and me wan' go home." Finn laughed. He loved that song, ever since watching "Beetlejuice".

Callie grew up in Chicago, and sang in her parent's church choir and the classical choir in her high school. She fell in love with rock and roll, however; her musical idol was Janis Joplin. And when she graduated (with honors) she ran off to join a band in Madison, Wisconsin. It was there that she met Emil Valerio, and the two of them went back to Chicago to join a new band that was forming at the University of Chicago, called Leuce.

"Leuce, by the way, was an ocean nymph in Greek mythology. She was the lover of Hades, god of the underworld."

After the meal, she gave Finn her address. "See you at five." She touched his hand, just barely, before leaving with a grin. He watched her go, still marveling how much she looked like Rachel in that outfit. He felt strange thinking of Callie like that. Hell, he felt strange thinking about Callie at all.

In truth, Finn was relieved he wasn't going over to her place right away. He needed some time to prepare himself, because the wounds Rachel left, as well as his self-inflicted ones, were still healing. Back at home, lying on his bed with his hands clasped behind his head, listening to music, he tried to deal with the feelings of guilt, that he was somehow cheating on the woman he loved, even though they were no longer together. If just thinking about the breakup gave him so much pain, wouldn't he be crazy to try and enter into something new?

As if on cue, a song came on his iPod.

_**There's a haze on the skyline, to wish me on my way.  
And there's a note on the telephone - some roses on a  
tray.  
And the motorway's stretching right out to us all,  
as I pull on my old wings - one white duck  
on your wall.  
Isn't it just too damn real?  
I'll catch a ride on your violin - strung upon your bow.  
And I'll float on your melody - sing your chorus soft  
and low.  
There's a picture-view postcard to say that I called.  
You can see from the fireplace, one white duck  
on your wall.  
Isn't it just too damn real? **_

That Jethro Tull song had always made him smile, especially the idea of singing Rachel her chorus. She had to have a chorus-deserved a chorus—all her own. Maybe he should write one? Yeah, maybe.

Unfortunately, the song continued, and he realized how it now summed up all of his insecurities regarding her:

_**So fly away Peter and fly away Paul - from the  
finger-tip ledge of contentment.  
Where the long restless rustle of high-heeled boots calls.  
And I'm probably bound to deceive you after all.  
Something must be wrong with me and my brain -  
if I'm so patently unrewarding.  
But my dreams are for dreaming and best left that  
way - and my zero to your power of ten equals  
nothing at all. **_

Exactly, he thought. Rachel was a power of ten beyond him. And, unlike fairy tales, love sometimes just wasn't enough:

_**There's no double-lock defense; there's no chain on my door.  
And I'm available for consultation,  
But remember your way in is also my way out, and  
love's four-letter word is no compensation**_.

It didn't occur to him, it seemed beyond his imagination then, that if he increased his zero even just a little, her power of ten could raise him to heights he never dreamed possible.

_**XXXxxx**_

Callie lived in the Ogygia Apartments, 2A, on 36th street, one of the less attractive areas of town. She wasn't as disturbingly dressed this time; just black yoga pants and a dark blue t-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and bare feet. Comfortable. The apartment itself was small and somewhat dark, with posters of Janis Joplin and PJ Harvey on the living room walls. He liked the faint smell of incense, and the expensive-looking turntable and stereo in the living room. And the records. Hundreds of them, it looked like, and much to his surprise, about equally divided between classical, popular, and jazz. A Mahavishnu Orchestra album cover lay on the small coffee table. She had to pull him away from them as they made their way to the kitchen with the pizza.

She liked sausage and mushroom pizza, his favorite. Of course, Rachel liked it too, as long as he ate her sausage. Finn also picked up some beer, Heineken, not his first choice, but decent enough, and he had noticed her drinking it at the bar. It was funny how he never seemed to get carded, but he wondered how Callie got away with it. He suspected a fake ID. They sat at the table in her very small kitchen.

"I picked up dessert," Callie said, with a very sly grin, and he wondered what that meant.

He asked her about the stereo, and she said it was really sort of Emil's, but the records were hers, and he lived in such a small place all of his records were in storage, so he let her keep the rig at her house.

"So…you guys are still friends, right?"

She laughed, with a wave of her hand.

"Oh yeah. Everyone used to call him my Svengali, since he's twenty-eight, and studied music at the University of Chicago. He wanted to be a concert violinist. But he was too Bohemian for that…or something. He just lost his drive, I guess."

Rachel would never lose her drive, he found himself thinking, almost guiltily.

"What happened between you two, if you don't mind my asking?" There was that faintly inscrutable look again.

Another wave of her hand. "Just the usual relationship bullshit."

Of course, Finn had no idea what she was talking about; none of his relationships had been normal by any stretch of the imagination. Thankfully, Callie didn't seem overly interested in why he and Rachel were no longer together, so he just nodded in response.

They went into the living room. Besides the album cover, there were pads of paper and pencils on the coffee table. Callie sat down cross-legged at the table and beckoned him to do the same.

"This is where I work on songs," she said, and pushed a notebook over to him. "Would you look at this one I'm working on?"

It was called "Three-Minute Egg". A jilted lover still sets a place for him at breakfast, boiling an egg and placing it in an egg cup, slicing the top off with a knife:

_**Deliberately I salt the wound**_

_**Cut your heart out with a spoon**_

_**Leaving me an empty shell **_

_**No place for a soul to dwell**_

_**Tossed in the trash, out on the street **_

_**Like my love, once true and sweet.**_

"More of the usual relationship bullshit?" he joked, looking up.

"It's not autobiographical," Callie countered, laughing.

"That's a relief, and all the more impressive." Finn felt wonderfully comfortable, as he had when Rachel had asked him for feedback for her songs. She once told him that she admired his intuitive feel for songwriting, that she had taken every suggestion of his to heart, and that he always made her songwriting better. So he felt comfortable saying, "I love the way the empty shell can mean her, or just the egg shell. But that last line needs some work."

They spent some time trying to come up with better ways of saying what Callie wanted to song to express. Finn admired her openness to his suggestions, as well as her confidence in rejecting some of them (always with a solid reason for doing so). They also looked at some of her other songs, mostly snippets, and, after a couple of hours, Finn, still sitting on the floor, leaned back against the couch and stretched his legs. Callie rose to her feet.

"Ready for dessert?" she asked.

"Sure," Finn answered, looking puzzled when she disappeared into her bedroom instead of the kitchen. She emerged with an ashtray and a joint. "Care to indulge?" she asked with a sly grin, "If not, I have cake!"

"How about both?" They laughed, and she joined him on the floor, sparking up with an old silver lighter. After a few hits, Callie got up, taking the Mahavishnu Orchestra album off the turntable and choosing another album.

"Time for some decent tunage," she winked.

The music was strange, percussion-heavy, with odd instruments, sometimes sung in a strange language, sometimes English. It sounded ancient, mystical. The male vocalist had a rich baritone, reminscent of Frank Sinatra.

"Who is this?" Finn asked, intrigued. He felt dreamy, adrift in time and space.

"Dead Can Dance," Callie replied. "Like it?"

"Yeah, it's incredible."

She smiled, then got up again. "I have some decent bourbon, which will go perfectly with this." He watched her go, closing his eyes, as a new song began.

It was a slow waltz, played on what sounded like hammered dulcimers, repetitive and dreamy. Soon a single dulcimer joined them, playing a strange melody, only to fade into a man's voice singing in a strange language, with others shouting, like sailors preparing a ship for sailing.

He was on the deck of a ship, feeling a light, salty spray from the wind-blown whitecaps on his face. Above him, a huge, blue sail, with a golden star, filled his view, as the ship rose and fell with the waves, and an endless blue horizon stretched before him. The sun glittered on the swells, two dolphins rode the creamy bow wave, and as he clung to the rigging, an island poked its peak above the horizon, and grew.

Suddenly the dulcimers were joined by the sound of a carousel calliope, then a hurdy gurdy, churning out a strange melody as a man's voice began singing:

_**John Francis Dooley, wipe the sleep from your eyes  
And embrace the light  
You have slept now for a thousand years  
Beneath starless nights  
And now it's time for you to renounce the old ways  
And to see a new dawn rise**_

_**In former days, the masks were raised**_  
_**When the god came down from off the mountain**_  
_**And a sacrifice was made**_  
_**For they knew that the day of wrath was fast approaching**_  
_**Just like yesterday, before the war**_

_**John Francis Dooley, the scapegoat has run  
All our sins are disowned  
And now it's time for you to take off your mask  
And cross the Rubicon**_

The dolphins leaped out of the sea, crossing paths, and he felt a woman's arms wind around him from behind, yet the island in the distance was foremost on his mind…

_**If you and I were one within the eyes of our designs  
It would still not change the fact of our leaving  
For tonight we must leave with the first gentle breeze  
For the Isles of Ken we are assailing**_

_**Just like Ulysses on the open sea**_  
_**On an odyssey of self-discovery**_

His eyes snapped open, revealing Callie kneeling before him, holding two glasses. Her dark, bottomless eyes seemed to shine without light. Taking his glass, Finn sipped, needing the bite of the liquor to break whatever spell he felt was beginning to envelop him, because the urge to kiss those full lips, now, was almost overwhelming. But it didn't work. He accepted her crawling into his lap, and he tasted her mouth, excited by the full lips, the tang of the whisky, and her warm skin. She wriggled around until she was straddling him, and his hands ran under her shirt and up her flanks, his thumbs meeting the soft swell of her full breasts, then up over her nipples, as she moaned in his mouth.

He wanted to lash himself to the mast, so that he could keep steering towards the island, but he couldn't resist her pulling him away, and the ship hauled around in her embrace.

This had to stop. His breathing was hard and ragged; it felt like he was on a runaway train. And as much as he liked Callie, as much as his body was screaming for release with her, the image of that island stuck, and finally he pulled away, to apologize.

"I-I'm sorry, I just can't do this right now, Callie." She left his lap, but remained kneeling in front of him. Her face was calm, and an enigmatic smile grew. The blackness of her eyes remained unreadable. Her right hand reached out to caress his cheek.

"Maybe some other time." A trace of regret, but she seemed to understand.

"Yeah." He was relieved.

She leaned forward and kissed him soundly, and he returned it without reservation.

"Thanks for the help on the songs, Finn."

"I hope we can work on songs again, maybe even my ideas," he said.

"And maybe finish this properly," she replied, with a wink, looking down at his crotch.

He laughed and groaned at the same time.

Later that night, alone in his bed, he reached for his phone. He wanted, desperately, to be able to move on. But there was this island, you see. He pulled up her number, not surprised in the least that he never deleted it.

_***Please don't forget me***_

He was asleep when his phone gently buzzed a few minutes later.

_***Never* **_

**A/N: The Harry Belafonte lyrics are from "The Banana Boat Song". The Jethro Tull lyrics are from "One White Duck/ 0^10 = Nothing At All." The Dead Can Dance lyrics are from the song "Ulysses". Callie's lyrics are her own. **


	8. Chapter 8

She had never known such pleasant exhaustion. Now that she and Cassandra had a better understanding and respect for each other, Rachel's solo workouts felt less desperate and were now more relentlessly focused. Being able to tap into her deep feelings for Finn helped immensely, as well. It felt, oddly enough, much like it did back in high school, when she wanted to make herself better, not only to be able to reach her dream, but also to justify his faith in her. His absolute belief in her talent was one of her most precious possessions, regardless of the fact they were no longer together. Yet those first few disastrous weeks in New York made almost everything seem to conspire against her believing in herself, and her immaturity and impetuousness suggested she really didn't deserve his unwavering support, or love. And it had nothing to do with hurt or resentment; Rachel and Finn had hurt each other deeply, yet, late at night, alone with their thoughts, each forgave the other everything. Their relationship was a sad mess: two people loving each other desperately yet kept apart by a lack of faith in themselves. Her friend Marge, the ex-actress waitress at The Arabica diner told her their love affair sounded like an O. Henry story.

But now that she was determined to give Finn time, his text was a glimmer of hope, and truly energized the workout. She interpreted it as evidence he was working on himself, and if she could only hold on, they could be together again. Marge thought so, too,

"Hang in there, hun," Marge told her at two AM that morning when she couldn't sleep and went into the City early for coffee before classes started.

Rachel dropped down on a mat, chest heaving, the welcome sweat telling her she had put in the necessary level of effort, and she knew the moves looked good. Marge's fantastic coffee had long worn off, so she was wrung out, enjoying just laying there. But wait…what the hell?

This time it was Patrick standing in the doorway. Rachel rolled over on her side.

"Hey," she said, wearily.

"Hey. Looking great. I was watching you for a bit." She really liked Patrick. He had strikingly good looks, yet seemed completely unaware of them. Around her he was soft-spoken, almost shy, except when they danced together. His tango was fierce and technically perfect. Rachel was able to respond almost as well these days, and Cassandra actually complimented the two of them last week, though she paired Patrick off with other girls a lot because he was so good. It was clear to the whole class now that Rachel was no longer the one needing remedial work; her tangos with him smoldered. She appreciated that Patrick, even though he had expressed feelings for her outside of class, never let that show in their dancing, or in his dancing with other girls. He always gave himself one-hundred percent to whichever partner he ended up with.

He was from Boston, of Irish descent, yet had a Spanish surname: de Valera. One day, at lunch, she asked him about it. He wove some story about there being survivors of shipwrecks from the Spanish Armada on the coast of Ireland, who became assimilated into Irish society. However, when he realized Rachel actually believed him, he laughed heartily. "It's all blarney," he said, confessing his great grandfather was actually a Spanish businessman living in Dublin, who married an Irish woman. Rachel found him charming.

He sat cross-legged next to her.

"Man, I'm whipped." She knew he was working on a group routine with some upperclassmen, Brody included.

"Then come join me," Rachel said, making room on the big mat for him. She lay on her back, legs crossed at the ankles. Her ankles ached from wearing heels during the workout.

Patrick lay beside her, hands clasped on his stomach.

"May I ask you a question?"

"Of course, " Rachel said.

"Would you let me write you a song?"

Rachel rolled her eyes. "Oh my god," she sighed, "Brody told you about our conversation?"

His head hung a little. "You know us male dancers," he said, "Awful gossips."

She sat up. "What is this, the Middle Ages? Are you two like a pair of medieval jousters, vying for some lady's hand?"

A small smile crept over his lips. "Well, yeah. Sort of."

At first Rachel was outraged, but then, as if out of nowhere, a scene from the old Heath Ledger film "A Knight's Tale" came to her mind, with Paul Bettany (outrageously funny as Geoffrey Chaucer) announcing his master's presence at a jousting tournament as if he was at a WWE wrestling match.

She started to laugh. A deep, rich laugh, a laugh that dissolved into giggles. And then it came to her. But she first had to dispel any misunderstanding, because Patrick was a lovely man who did not deserve to be toyed with. She leaned over and kissed him sweetly, on the lips, brushing them lightly with her fingertips.

"I have to warn you, Patrick," she said, looking at him with kindness, "Writing the kind of song I have in mind is no trivial task." She touched her chest. "It has to make my heart _sing_, has to make it _resonate_. And only one person has ever been able to do that. Because he _knew_ me. Because he truly _loved_ me, and had the _talent _to pull it off." The intensity of her gaze made him gulp. "Are you up to it? Because that's who you're going to be up against, too, not just Brody. It's quite possible neither of you will win."

Patrick blinked, never having seen her so passionate. Yet she didn't think he truly understood what she had just told him. She knew, deep down, he underestimated Finn, just as Brody did. Well, so be it. They may both lose. But she wondered if one of them just might be able to pull it off. If Finn truly never did return, the only man she could ever consider would have to be able to reach her at this level. Secretly, she rooted for Patrick, in that eventuality.

"So…is it going to be a real competition, then?"

She raised her eyebrows. "Why not?" Thinking for a moment, she added, "We'll hold it at The Arabica… after we get back from Thanksgiving, to give everyone time."

"And it's just Brody and me?" Good question.

"It's open to anyone who thinks they can pull it off," she replied, laughing. "You know anybody else?"

Patrick shook his head. Then looked her straight in the eyes. "I'm in." Just as she knew he would be. As he got up to leave, he touched her shoulder.

"You do know you're worth this, right? To me?"

She gave him a silent nod, and he was gone, most likely to tell Brody. Such gossips.


	9. Chapter 9

They had been working on her songs again. Both were tired from full shifts at their jobs, and ended the session early to just relax, sitting on the floor, leaning back against the couch, drinking bourbon and playing records.

Callie, dressed simply again in a black t-shirt and leggings, looked over at Finn. He had been very quiet, eyes closed, as an Emerson Lake and Palmer record played. Greg Lake's gorgeously clear voice filled the room, singing of love and loss:

_**I need me  
You need you  
We want us to live forever  
Don't let the curtain fall  
Measure after measure  
Of writing on the wall  
That burns so brightly  
It blinds us all**_

A tear rolled down Finn's cheek.

_**I need me  
You need you  
We want us to be together  
On Sundays in the rain  
Closer than forever  
Against or with the grain  
To ride the storms of love again.**_

"Finn," she said, nudging him. His eyes opened slowly, tears brimming, and she didn't think she had ever seen anyone look so sad in her young life.

"I'm sorry," he said, embarrassed. "That was awful of me, to be thinking of someone else when I'm with you."

Callie wasn't hurt. Ever since that lunch it was obvious he was haunted by this Rachel girl. Whoever she was, he had it bad for her. But, she told herself, she liked his company (most of the time) and did appreciate his songwriting help: "Three-Minute-Egg" was almost ready to try out with the band. But she did have to know if going any further with him was worth it.

"Tell me about her, Finn. I deserve at least to know who I'm up against."

"Yeah," he said softly, "You do."

So he told her everything. She listened to him paint a picture, an adoring portrait of a woman who had meant everything to him. They brought out the best in each other, and came alive when they sang together. They almost married. Twice. Callie felt the lightness in his soul when he talked about her. It seemed to lift the weight from his shoulders, brought some light to his face, until the incident at the train station. Callie was shocked at what he did—she ached in sympathy for Rachel at that moment—yet said nothing, understanding the depth of his feelings, too. His description of the debacle in the army, and the growing sense of inadequacy was heartbreaking, especially when he decided to visit Rachel in New York.

"She was so excited and happy to be with me again, she thought we were finally going to be together, just like we planned, just like we dreamed." He bit his lip, as if to distract himself from the pain of the memory. "But I was a dick to her the whole time I was there." Disgust and self-loathing filled his words. "I left before dawn and never even said goodbye."

Callie pulled her knees up to her chest. "That's a dick move, all right," she said, nodding. "So what was so bad being in New York trying to figure out what you wanted in life? It's not like they don't have tire shops and bar bands there. It's the Big Fucking Apple, for crissakes! And you could have been together. I don't understand."

The look on his face gave him away.

"You thought she would eventually dump you, trade up for the shinier, more sophisticated Brody model, didn't you? "

"She had already started before I got there, Callie," he said, bitterness creeping into his voice.

Callie snorted. "How long was it since she had heard from you? Four months? What the hell were you expecting, Finn? I would have slammed the door in your face and fucked Brody's brains out loud enough for you to hear from the street."

She hugged her knees, fuming, unable to look at him. Maybe she went too far, but _Jesus_. It was a quiet for a moment, and she half-expected him to angrily get up and leave. Callie cast a look his way.

He was still sitting on the floor.

"It wouldn't take very long to fuck that guy's _brains _out," he deadpanned. A rueful grin tried to emerge, but soon faded as his head dropped in despair.

Callie moved over and knelt beside him, one hand on his thigh. It was difficult to look at him in such a broken state.

"I came back to Lima to accept my fate. She belongs on the stage; I belong in the gutter."

She shook her head, smiling sadly. "You know, Finn, Oscar Wilde once said we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars."

He cocked his head to look at her.

"You sure aren't in the gutter when you're performing," she continued. "And you said you wanted to write songs. I'm no genius, but that sounds like someone looking at the stars."

He gave no reaction.

Not quite sure what to do next, she suddenly started to sing. Her voice was low, tinged with sweetness:

_**I never seen you looking so bad my funky one  
You tell me that your superfine mind has come undone .**_

_**Any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you my friend**__**  
Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again**__**  
When the demon is at your door**__**  
In the morning it won't be there no more**_

_**Any major dude will tell you**_

There came a softening to his countenance, as if her voice siphoned off some of the loneliness and self-loathing. She wondered, almost guiltily, if Rachel's voice would have had a similar effect. But Rachel wasn't there.

_**Have you ever seen a squonk's tears? Well, look at mine**__**  
The people on the street have all seen better times**_

_**Any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you my friend**__**  
Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again**__**  
When the demon is at your door**__**  
In the morning it won't be there no more**_

_**Any major dude will tell you**_

_**I can tell you all I know, the where to go, the what to do**_  
_**You can try to run but you can't hide from what's inside of you**_

_**Any major dude with half a heart surely will tell you my friend**__**  
Any minor world that breaks apart falls together again**__**  
When the demon is at your door**__**  
In the morning it won't be there no more**_

_**Any major dude will tell you **_

_**Any major dude will tell you **_

_**Any major dude will tell you **_

An odd look came over his face. It was unreadable to her. But his physical reaction was far from it: she was pulled into his lap, felt his lips hard against hers, insistent, tongue probing, the taste of whisky. Any reservations she had were swept away. She was lonely, and young, and a good-looking guy with musical talent was showing interest in her again. And he wasn't Emil, who she had to break up with before he could accept her influence on the band's direction. Never mind the fact Finn was hopelessly in love with someone else. She'd deal with that later.

"Stay with me tonight," she gasped.

**XXXxxx**

Only one other woman in his life had ever sung to him. Callie's voice didn't have the soul-wrenching effect Rachel's had, but it had been so long he was moved nonetheless. That night at the bar in New York didn't count, as far as he was concerned. He had not been receptive, had been too awash in jealousy towards Brody to hear Rachel singing to him. It was bad enough he had turned down the opportunity to sing _with_ her; it was a mortal, _unforgivable_ sin for him to have thrown away the opportunity to hear her sing _for_ him. His heart should have rung like a finely-tuned bell that night, instead of sitting, clenched in his chest, like a badly-digested meal.

The shame and regret he felt, telling Callie the whole story (he hadn't actually done that for anybody since the breakup) left him far more broken and vulnerable than he expected. Rachel's text had given him some hope, but laying out his situation to Callie told him otherwise, only confirming his feeling that he belonged in Lima, that he would remain a bottom-dweller after all.

He was lonely, and young, and immature, and a pretty girl actually showed some interest in him, and she could sing, and he liked her, and even though he knew he could only love one woman, that only her voice could ever make him feel truly alive, he ignored the inner voice that told him what he was doing wasn't fair to Callie. At least he wouldn't have to endure his fate alone.

At least he had someone to sing to him.

**A/N: The Emerson Lake and Palmer lyrics are from "Closer to Believing". The song Callie sung is "Any Major Dude Will Tell You", by Steely Dan. **


	10. Chapter 10

"I was hoping we could hold the competition here," Rachel said, "If that's okay, of course."

Marge Bailey laughed to herself, amused at Rachel's crazy idea. "Yeah, hun, sure."

She wiped down the old cherry wood counter. Nobody knew how old the diner was. Her guess was it was built in the 1940's. It had a busy clientele during the day and early evenings. That was why Marge preferred the graveyard shift, when only a few NYU rats showed up to study. The Arabica was actually closer to NYADA than to NYU, but it wasn't trendy enough for the drama kids, she supposed. Rachel said she liked it, though, because it wasn't crowded or noisy, and she could study when it was hard for her to sleep.

"I don't want to hold it at Callbacks", Rachel said.

"I don't blame you. Do you need anything special? "

"No, Brody is providing an electric piano."

Marge paused wiping. She was a tall, lanky woman of indeterminate age, with thick, wavy red hair and a low, yet feminine voice. She met Rachel at one AM one morning, during the first week of classes. The girl was lonely, angry, and confused over Finn, and anxious about school. Marge took to her immediately, especially after hearing her story about being left, not at the altar, but at a goddamned train station on her wedding day. Rachel, in turn, was intrigued to find out Marge was a Tisch-trained stage actress, who had stopped acting when her husband Nigel, an NYU professor, died of cancer ten years before.

Marge found elements of her own life in Rachel's story. She and Nigel had been completely and utterly devoted to one another, so she felt affinity for the poor girl who wandered in with a tale of what seemed to be almost epic love. Marge was able to get Rachel to shed the anger and hatred for Finn, pointing out how difficult it must have been for Finn to have made that decision, as awful as it been for her to experience.

"I guess I don't understand why you feel you have to do this," Marge said. "If these guys are pressuring you, why don't you just tell them to fuck off?"

She didn't think she had ever seen Rachel look so sad or lonely.

"I'm afraid, Marge," she said. "I'm afraid that I've lost Finn for good, that he's never coming back, and that he left me with a heart resonating only for him." She toyed with her cup, staring into the dregs until Marge filled it again. "I'm afraid this is my future. But there's something else." Rachel's face slipped grimly into anger. "I don't feel fully respected by Brody, and I wonder about Patrick, too. Neither of them seems to understand how devastating this has been for Finn and me. All they can see is a high school romance driven on the rocks by distance." She looked straight ahead. "And it's not, you know?"

Marge nodded. Rachel continued.

"I detect a sense of entitlement from them now that Finn is gone, and a contempt for him, too. It's like they see him as some kind of high school country bumpkin. They have no sense of how much he is a part of me, even if we aren't together anymore. I want them to know just how high a bar he set for them." Rachel pounded her fist on the counter. "And I _refuse_ to settle for anything less than that."

"Oh_, hun,_ " Marge said, her hands on Rachel's. "You don't expect either of them to pull it off, do you?"

"Frankly, no." Rachel had a faraway look. "I want to be fair to them, Marge. But I also don't want to be alone for the rest of my days—" She suddenly looked horrified. "Oh Marge, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean—."

Marge gently squeezed Rachel's hands, her eyes kind and gentle. "Rachel, dear, Nigel and I had twelve years together as husband and wife before I lost him, and we were happy every single second of that time. That kind of love carries you a long way. Your situation is different. Your life is just beginning. You have yet to experience the kind of long-term happiness we had. But it's a blessing you deserve, and if Finn isn't the one with whom you find it, I can understand wanting that person to love you at least as much or more." She felt Nigel's presence strongly at that moment, and automatically reached into her apron for the picture, running her thumb over it like a rosary.

"I wish I had known him," Rachel said.

"He would have loved you, hun." She let go of the picture and started rubbing the smooth red wood again. "Frankly, I like how you think. You're developing a healthy sense of self-worth."

"I just don't get it," Rachel said, shaking her head. "Finn goes and they start lining up, as if I'm _expected_ to choose a new guy." She sighed. "I almost wish Finn would come back and just vanquish them."

Marge continued polishing the counter, saying nothing, but a sly smile started to creep across her face.

**XXXxxx**

The glade was quiet but for the wind, the chirping crickets, and the murmuring surf. Soft starlight infused the darkness; a sliver of moon, like an archer's bow, rose behind her as the eastern horizon began to faintly glow. Ship's lanterns glittered over the harbor waters below.

She was grateful for that last sign from him; she thanked the gods for it. She had never asked them for anything before, and felt blessed. But she also felt besieged. The suitors were expecting her to give up hope, to choose, not to be sitting here waiting for the ship which might never come. Move on and live your life, they argued. No, she thought. I need _him_, but I need him ready to be with me.

Fond memories of being in this glade with him flooded her mind. There was that first time, when she came upon him sitting alone, and she laughed to herself at how flustered and inarticulate he was when she sang for him, yet he managed to pick a flower for her hair that day, an anemone, from then on the only flower she would wear. And the picnic: the wine, bread and her best cheese, under the warm sun, amongst the flowers, and his sweet, awkward kiss, as the nymphs tittered gaily from the forest. He even pledged his life to her in this glade, only to be taken away by his own insecurities, breaking her heart, as well as his own.

O gods, she prayed, please let this place be where we heal our hearts for the last time. She begged the Fates to weave their lives together again.

There was a sudden chill. The wind, which had been whispering in the pines, stopped abruptly. There was a vast stillness, a sense of something about to happen. Then a beating of wings. She looked up, to see the stars blocked by something moving. The faint dawn light revealed an eagle, circling above. She felt its fierce gaze upon her as it swept around, three times, then watched in wonder as it headed West, lit from behind by the rosy light of dawn.

Slowly the wind picked up again, and once more the air was filled with the sounds of insects, the murmuring surf, and now, the tantalizing scent of hope.


	11. Chapter 11

She was asleep beside him when he awoke: naked, curled against his body, tucked under his right arm, head upon his chest. His first thought was what he had done wrong. Callie was sensual, and experienced, and eager, and he remembered the physical pleasure being exquisite. She was also beautiful: maybe not as toned as Rachel, but she had those full, firm breasts, and curves, generous lips, excellent legs, and an earthy scent. She responded to him with enthusiasm, and both of their orgasms seemed satisfying. But Finn was truly young and very inexperienced, and it wasn't until he had sex with Callie that he realized just how much of what he had with Rachel was simply not transferrable.

He and Rachel had barely been sexually active seven months, and even that had to be squeezed in when they could find privacy, which wasn't very often. With the exception of Finn's disastrous moment with Santana, their only significant experience with sex had been with each other. Yet, what both of them lacked in experience they more than made up for in passion. The truth was, each truly, absolutely, and completely adored the other; sex to them was consecrated by that adoration, far more than by the physical pleasure itself. To Finn and Rachel, making love was literal, not figurative, and they took each other to emotional heights that no other person on the planet could possibly hope to match.

Even the sweet, beautiful girl asleep in his arms.

He wasn't sure what to do. But he _was_ sure what he wasn't going to do. Callie's feelings were in his hands, just as Rachel's had been in New York. Finn felt the old urge to avoid dealing with the mess he had just made, just as he had in not telling Rachel about Santana, and the insanity at the train station, and in New York. It was the urge that marked him as still a child, he thought. He fervently wished he could take back those awful decisions. How different his life would be had he stayed and made love to Rachel in New York, instead of slipping away disgracefully in the night. He stopped taking that line of thought when he realized all those maybes and could-have-beens prevented him from simply accepting his past, so that he could improve his future, whatever that was. What was needed now was a decision on what do here. When Callie woke up. Which she did, as if summoned, her eyelashes fluttering against his skin.

"Hey." Sleepy grin, coal-black eyes.

"Hey yourself." Despite his previous thoughts, Finn did enjoy the comfortable warmth of the bed with her next to him. He also liked her scent, as different as it was from Rachel's.

She threw back the covers, sitting up, resting on her haunches, hands in her lap. Her countenance regained that inscrutable look it had when they first met, as she let his eyes roam over her; he was a guy, after all, and she was naked and hot. Glancing down between his legs, Callie gave a secret smile, but left the bed without saying anything more, pulling on a thin black robe as she made her way to the bathroom, then into the kitchen. He followed her.

"It's still really early," she said, standing at the counter ladling coffee beans into a grinder, "We don't have to really get up for work for an hour. I was going to bring coffee back to bed."

He waited until the grinder was done.

"Callie…" he began, but she turned to face him, cutting him short. Her countenance was no longer unreadable, but calm instead.

"I don't regret what happened last night," she said, then, seeing his reaction, quickly gave him an encouraging smile. "And I know what's involved pursuing a relationship with you, really."

"You do?" he asked, and watched her nod, then look at his crotch with an adorable grin.

"Finn, _please_ go get some clothes on while I finish making coffee. A girl can't concentrate when you tempt her like this."

"That's better," Callie said, as he came back dressed in his boxers and a t-shirt. She was standing by the coffee maker still. He wasn't sure what he wanted to say anymore.

"I could tell you had trouble dealing with your feelings," she continued without prompting. He started to speak, but she cut him off again, something for which he was actually grateful.

"You actually don't know much about me, Finn," she said, filling two mugs, and coming to the kitchen table. She sat opposite him, and he could feel her eyes taking him in, absorbing the light. "But first things first: we both were feeling lonely last night. I'll be honest though," Callie smiled, "The reasons for your loneliness are a hell of a lot more interesting than mine."

She delved deeper into her story for him. She had graduated a year early from high school. "I was a young seventeen," she laughed. She hadn't run away to Madison immediately, but spent a year studying music at the Chicago campus of Northwestern University. That was where she met Emil.

"He showed up at a party, and I remember thinking how much he resembled the bass player for King Crimson, Tony Levin." They fell for each other-hard, and when the opportunity came that summer to join the progressive band Transcription, Callie dropped out and lived with Emil in Madison. Emil played violin, and Callie was a second keyboard player and background vocalist.

"It was heaven," Callie recalled, fondly. "We spent one week playing nothing but King Crimson and Gong."

She told Finn that Emil had only been her third lover, and that each of them admired the other's talent immensely. "The reason we left for Leuce was because they needed a lead female vocalist, and Emil said I deserved more exposure."

"So what is the deal with you two, anyway?" Finn asked. "I mean, you are cool enough with each other at rehearsals and stuff."

Callie's face look pained. "Even though he loved me," she said, "Emil couldn't deal with my songwriting, and the fact our band mates started looking to me for direction."

"So it's pride that broke you up?"

"Mostly, yeah." She looked down, toying with her mug. "That was three months ago. I miss being with him. But it's better I'm not. I'm not even sure I want to stay in Leuce much longer."

"Really? What do you want to do?"

She was completely open now.

"I want to go back to Northwestern. I want to improve my singing."

"But your singing is great!" he protested. She smiled.

"As good as Rachel's?" Finn's eyes dropped in answer; she patted his arm.

"My voice right now is good for rock 'n roll, but I want more. I miss singing jazz and classical. And I need training for that. "

She wanted more. He wondered what was so fucking wrong with him, that he didn't see the same for himself. Then she surprised him.

"Come with me. You could get into Northwestern too, I know it. We'd be great together."

Startled, he shook himself, looking as if he'd seen a ghost, which, of course, he had. Sensing she may have gone too far, Callie froze, distressed.

"No, no, " Finn said, touching her arm this time. "It's okay..."

She didn't look convinced, so he simply said," I'm really messed up, Callie, at least right now. And…what you said just triggered a memory. "

"Ripped off a scab, did I? Callie asked, with a tender look. He nodded, relieved at her empathy.

"Look," he said carefully, "I just want you to know I don't regret what happened last night either."

She gave him a pretty smile, but said nothing.

"But the last thing I want to have happen is for you to get hurt."

"I know you still love Rachel," Callie said, "But I'm a big girl. What happened last night was good for the both of us. I'm not reading any more into it than two young people letting off some very healthy steam." She gave him a saucy wink, and her robe fell open at the neck. He chuckled. "I like you, and enjoy being with you, and don't enjoy seeing you suffer, okay? So I'm going to lay it on the table—I think I can help you get over Rachel, if that is ultimately what you want to do. All I ask is that you be absolutely honest with me, at all times, regarding her, even if it means telling me you can't ever let her go. Even if it means you're going back to New York. Even if it means—"she stood up, her robe slipping to the floor, "—turning down this."

Finn gulped—Callie really was gorgeous—then smiled. "It's a deal, Callie."

He felt caught in her dark gaze for a moment.

"And no running away in the middle of the night, Finn. That shit is for douches. "

Yeah. He knew that. She picked up her robe, took him by the hand, and led him towards the bathroom.

"We need to get showered for work," she said, with a wink.

**XXXxxx**

The Friday night gig had been great. Leuce premiered "Three-Minute Egg", and Callie was in heaven. The band had never sounded tighter; Finn and Jack's rhythm section had pounded the audience to the floor, while Fred and Ernie's severely distorted guitars wailed over Emil's keyboard droning, and she felt her voice grab the crowd by the throat. Afterwards, she stayed with Finn at a table for a drink. She was feeling sexy but exhausted in her silvery dress; his arm was slung around her shoulder as they listened to another act, a rapper named Sir C, going on about sticking it to the pigs. Pretty funny.

They had slept together one more time, and it had been good, just like before. Good. Not great, but good. The itch had been scratched, she supposed. But the intensity was damped, as if both of them deliberately held back, for fear of losing themselves too soon. It didn't take an oracle to see where it was ultimately going. They were walking on eggs with each other, and she predicted the passion would ebb away eventually. He confessed the previous evening that he had felt Rachel kiss his neck during rehearsals.

Northwestern replied to her inquiry. She was welcome to return in January, under her original scholarship, too. Her parents, bless their long-suffering souls, had kept her college savings safe, and even added more during her absence, in the hope their only daughter would come to her senses and return to school. She hadn't told anyone, yet, except Finn. He had been honestly pleased for her, but he didn't think going to Chicago was in the cards for him.

So Callie decided to just enjoy his company while she could, but she wondered what Finn was going to do with himself when the band gig was up and she was gone. For now, she snuggled and enjoyed the closeness.

About halfway through Sir C's act, the club's bouncer, a huge, one-eyed ex-wrestler named Cy came up to their table, and said somebody was at the bar asking for him. Finn looked at Callie, who shrugged, so he got up and walked to the back with Cy. A tall, red-headed woman, dressed in a fashionable black coat and boots stood up.

"Finn Hudson?" she asked, her voice low.

"That's me, Finn said.

"Hi, I'm Marge Bailey."


	12. Chapter 12

"Hi, I'm Marge Bailey."

Finn looked quizzical, but remained polite. The woman was smiling, as if she knew him.

"Pleased to meet you…um…Have we met before? "

Marge smiled and shook her head. "No, I'm a friend of Rachel's from New York."

He panicked. "Is she okay? Is something wrong?"

Marge grabbed his arm. "Relax, hun, she's fine…physically, at least." She beckoned him to sit at the bar. "I won't keep you long from your...friend," she said, looking over at Callie, who was curiously watching them.

He suddenly felt embarrassed, and fumbled for something to say, but Marge stopped him from speaking. "Look, hun," she said kindly, "I don't know you, and I'm not here to judge. I'm just here to tell you about Rachel, and what's going on in New York. What you do with that information is your own business, all right?"

Finn thought for a moment. "Let me talk to her. I'll be right back."

He wanted her to know what was going on. He had promised Callie he'd be absolutely honest about Rachel. She looked up.

"Is everything okay? You look weird. Who is she?"

He looked her right in the eyes, hoping he was doing the right thing.

"She's a friend of Rachel's, from New York." He grabbed Callie's hand. "It's all right—she just has some news for me. I…just wanted you to know." This whole honesty thing went against his grain, even more so when her face became unreadable again for a moment. But then she smiled and brought his hand to her chest.

"Do you want me to leave, and we can talk later?" she asked, adding, "I know this must be hard for you."

Maybe he was overdoing it, but Finn was beginning to like this confronting issues head-on thing.

"No, don't leave. What I'd like to do is talk with her, than talk to you about it here, if that's ok."

"Okay… that's fine," she said, much to his relief, though to be honest, having both Marge and Callie being so understanding was kind of freaking him out. He went back and sat the bar. She had ordered a double bourbon for him.

"So, Marge. What is it you want to tell me?"

She told him everything. About Brody, and Patrick, and how much Rachel loved and believed in him, and about the contest that she hoped would show them how much she loved him. And how she despaired ever seeing him again, and worried about thinking of moving on.

Marge told him how Rachel wished her Finn would come back and vanquish

them, like some ancient hero.

"Vanquish them?" Finn was confused. "How?"

Marge chuckled. "By writing a song for her, of course. One that makes her heart resonate like the one you wrote for her before, the song that her heart resonates to still, to this day. "

"It does?" He felt like he must look like an idiot to this woman.

"Oh hun, do you still not know how much that song you wrote meant to her?"

He'd never really thought about it.

"Rachel's an artist, and she knows you are too, and she wants, more than anything, for you to find that within you, and come back to her where you belong."

It was true. She once called him an artist, over that very song, too. An artist…He closed his eyes, feeling his love for her combine with her love for him, filling his lungs in buoyant joy, bringing him up, up from the mud. Closer to her.

He opened his eyes, eventually. Marge was watching him intently. He smiled at her, then dropped his head back, eyes closed again, caught up in a the rush of love through his body, something he had denied himself for so long, something he felt he never deserved to feel, and he was on the deck of that ship again in the brilliant sunshine and bracing sea air, with the island looming ahead, the blue sail with the golden star tautly cupping the wind. He gasped, and took a swallow of the whisky.

"I'm in," he said finally, hoping he wasn't grinning like the village idiot. Marge smiled, but looked over at Callie.

"What about your friend, Finn? What about her feelings?"

Finn told her about Callie, how they would eventually part, her leaving for Northwestern, and Marge's ears perked up.

"Do you mind if I talk to her, hun?" she asked. He nodded reluctantly, but for some reason he trusted Marge. "Good. Finish your drink." Before he could answer Marge had marched across the floor to Callie's table.

**XXXxxx **

Callie was surprised to find the woman walking over, drink in hand.

"Hi Callie," she said, extending her hand, "I'm Marge Bailey, a friend of Rachel's from New York. May I sit?"

Callie was too shocked to say no, so Marge sat beside her.

"Listen, hun, like I told Finn, I'm not here to judge anybody, okay?"

Callie finally found her voice. "So why are you talking to me? And why isn't Finn here?" Who was this woman?

Marge let out a low chuckle. "Given how adept Finn is with his women, I thought I'd say something first."

Callie felt the warmth from Marge, the non-threatening tone, and started to relax, even laugh at her little joke. She glanced back at Finn, who was working on his drink, an odd look on his face.

"Finn told me you are going back to school, at Northwestern." Callie nodded.

"My late husband Nigel was an NYU professor, and we knew some of the music faculty at Northwestern. Did you know a Frank Drury when you were there?"

Callie grinned. "Yeah! I took freshman music theory from him! He was great!"

Marge patted Callie's hand.

"Hun, when you get back, drop by and see him, tell him Marge Bailey says hi, okay?"

"I will! Wow, small world…" Callie looked directly at Marge. "Look, before we go any further, just let me say Finn and I are friends… but it's going to be over soon, at least being in close proximity. And I know he's hopelessly in love with Rachel, and all I can say is…how lucky she is."

Marge glanced over at Finn. "There is something about them that reminds me of what I had with Nigel. That's why I want to help them. Lord knows, they've suffered enough, don't you think?"

Indeed they have, Callie thought. As much as she wished Finn would have agreed to go with her to Northwestern, she also knew, deep down, he would never be happy with anyone else but his Rachel. She nodded, with a small, sad smile.

"Would you be willing to help them as well, if I explained how you could?" Marge asked. "I know that is asking a lot."

It was, and yet it wasn't, really. Callie considered herself Finn's friend, first and foremost. Any romantic feelings she had for him were only in their infancy. That didn't mean, however, that actively helping Finn and Rachel wouldn't hurt; she was only human, after all. But she could see what being away from Rachel was doing to him, and her capacity for empathy, indeed, her very humanity that ached to think of him with another woman, also compelled Callie to want to end his suffering as well. She didn't know it then, but years later, as a featured soloist in a production of "The Messiah" at Carnegie Hall, she would reap the positive karma from her decision at Hensley's Bar in Lima, Ohio.

"How can I help?" she asked.


	13. Chapter 13

They were at her apartment, trying to come up with a basic outline for his song. Finn was truly grateful for Callie's help; he could have kissed Marge when she told him Callie had agreed to work with him. She also slipped him the names and phone numbers of admissions officers at NYU and Queens College.

"I saw your performance, hun, both at Nationals and here in this bar. Try college—stop telling yourself you aren't good enough. You can make a living in New York while solidifying what you want to do. Use all of your skills. Be with Rachel. Good God, son, you know that is what you both want. Don't let a couple of NYADA nancy-boys take it away from you."

He was surprised at Marge's vehemence. "They aren't that bad, are they, Marge? I mean, Rachel has better taste than that."

Marge eyed him. "No, they aren't that bad," she admitted, "But she doesn't feel they respect you and the relationship you have with her. Don't you see? She knows you're better than all of them, and it kills her that she can't get you to see that." He dropped his head. "_Listen_ to me, son," Marge said, lifting his chin up so he could look into her face. "Now that I've met you, I can say she has superb taste in men. Her instincts are right on. Trust me—you can be successful at anything you choose, and you can figure that out in New York, with the woman that loves you. All you have to do is what you already know you excel at—writing songs that make her heart sing. So write that song, go back to New York, and _retake_ your rightful place—beside her."

She eyed him up and down with approval. "And keep this look. It'll intimidate the hell out of them."

He felt himself straighten up. It had been a long time since Finn Hudson had thought of being beside Rachel as his _rightful_ place. In fact, he wondered if he had ever truly felt that way before. But it was undeniably true: he _was_ able to connect with Rachel Berry better than any person on the planet. It was what she had been telling him all along, what she had felt. Always. Goddamn it, he felt as if he were awakening from some debilitating dream, like Theoden emerging from under Grima Wormtongue's influence in _The Lord of the Rings_. How in hell had he ever let himself get into this position? He had made his Rachel cry and suffer. Well. No more. It was time to make her laugh and sing _with him_ again. And if these NYADA douches thought they had a chance with her, they were in for a nasty surprise, by God.

A glint appeared in his eyes, to Marge's delighted satisfaction.

"I need to get to work," he said, with more conviction than he had ever felt in his life.

Marge hugged him.

"Oh, hun, I was hoping you'd say that."

Callie stood up and stretched. They had been working for hours, trying different ideas, discarding all of them. But Finn wasn't discouraged. It was the same feeling he had when he wrote "Pretending". The song was already inside him, deep where his creativity came from; he just had to get himself in the proper frame of mind for it to merge into his consciousness.

"Let's take a break," Callie suggested, and went into the kitchen. He got up and looked for an album to play. She had all of Cream's records. Ginger Baker's drumming fascinated him, but he was only familiar with the band's hits that the lame classic rock radio station played. So, when over at Callie's, he had been playing the album _Wheels of Fire _a lot, especially "Deserted Cities of the Heart". Finn looked over another album, _Disraeli Gears. _A couple of the songs were familiar: "Sunshine of Your Love" and "Strange Brew." One unfamiliar song, however, caught his eye for some reason: "Tales of Brave Ulysses". He was reminded of the Dead Can Dance song. Ulysses was a hero, right? Rachel had called Finn her hero, once. Intrigued, he put the album on the turntable and cued up that cut, then sat back against the couch as Callie emerged with two glasses of whisky, and settled in, close to him.

They no longer made love, not since Marge's visit three days ago, and probably would not again. But they still slept together, entwined even. They still kissed. Each calmed the other as the excitement over their life choices began to envelop them; each gave the other the gift of a good night's rest, even when they stayed up late. They laughed finding themselves in bed together each morning. But there was sweetness, almost innocence, to them now, as if their relationship had unfolded in reverse. It certainly eased the angst.

The song was fascinating. Eric Clapton's wah-wah pedal and Baker's lush cymbal work was wonderfully soft and mysterious. Jack Bruce's normally strong tenor voice almost whispered the opening lyrics:

_**You thought the leaden winter would bring you down forever, **_

_**But you rode upon a steamer to the violence of the sun.**_

Then the drums, relentless and insistent, came in just above a throbbing bass, with the guitar wailing the blues riff that was the basis for the song:

_**And the colours of the sea bind your eyes with trembling mermaids, **_

_**And you touch the distant beaches with tales of brave Ulysses, **_

_**How his naked ears were tortured by the sirens sweetly singing, **_

_**For the sparkling waves are calling you to kiss their white laced lips. **_

_**And you see a girl's brown body dancing through the turquoise, **_

_**And her footprints make you follow where the sky loves the sea. **_

_**And when your fingers find her, she drowns you in her body, **_

_**Carving deep blue ripples in the tissues of your mind.**_

Clapton's solo flourishes brought Finn to close his eyes, and he was on the ship with the blue sail and the golden star, and Rachel was the brown-bodied girl, swimming in the crystal-green waters of the harbor now, instead of in the pool that blessed summer before senior year.

_**The tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers, **_

_**And you want to take her with you to the hard land of the winter. **_

And the driving beat of the song began again:

_**Her name is Aphrodite and she rides a crimson shell, **_

_**And you know you cannot leave her for you touched the distant sands **_

_**With tales of brave Ulysses, how his naked ears were tortured **_

_**By the sirens sweetly singing. **_

_**The tiny purple fishes run laughing through your fingers, **_

_**And you want to take her with you to the hard land of the winter.**_

Among the beautiful images being painted in his mind, however, was a darker one: of a return to a great hall, and a sword, and a wrathful slaying. But it was wiped away, like a bad dream, by the gentle Rachel herself, his reason for living, and he knew why he had come on this journey in the first place, and suffered so much.

His eyes shot open, and he swallowed some whisky before grabbing a pencil and pad. Callie looked at him in surprise.

He had the beginnings of his song, the song that would vanquish Rachel's suitors once and for all. He was going to take back what was his, and stop her tears forever.

He was going to be her hero, at last.

**A/N: Lyrics are from "Tales of Brave Ulysses", by Eric Clapton and Martin Sharp**


	14. Chapter 14

Marge was surprised to find Geoff Fielding already at the counter when she started her shift at midnight. Saturday and Sunday mornings brought the most customers, almost all NYU rats. Of all of them, Geoff was the newest, a freshman, and her favorite.

He was a surfer from California, small and powerfully-built, with shaggy, sun-bleached hair, deep tan, and intense blue eyes. He wanted to be a writer. Like Rachel, he was involved in a long-distance relationship that screwed with his sleep. He and Rachel had commiserated here at the diner in the first few weeks of classes, and became friends. They hadn't seen each other much since Rachel left the dorms to move in with Kurt , but they often ran into each other at the diner when they couldn't sleep, and sometimes played Frisbee with a few others (even Kurt, once) in Central Park on weekends when the weather was good.

"Getting an early start?" Marge put on her apron, and noticed his cup was half full. Geoff just nodded, like a zombie, so she filled his cup and attended to the two other customers, who had asked for their checks. When they were gone, she came back to him. He seemed to have revived, somewhat.

"Sorry," he said, ruefully. Marge didn't like they way he looked: eyes red-rimmed, exhaustion exuding from every pore.

"It's Elena, isn't it, hun?" Marge knew that Elena had been suffering from insomnia as well, and that Geoff worried about her. She was a freshman at UC Berkeley, also a writer and surfer, who he had met on the beach in LA when they were just thirteen. They were extraordinarily devoted to each other, much like Rachel and Finn, only without the heavy drama. Marge wondered if it was because they shared two passions, surfing and writing, and that each edited the other's work, even term papers. He had once shown Marge a picture of her. She was tall, blonde and gorgeous, with high Slavic cheek bones, green eyes, and full lips. They both were trying to hold on for Thanksgiving, where sleep and surfing were on the agenda.

Geoff nodded in reply, finally just saying, "I miss her, Marge." Then he pulled out a book and began studying.

Marge left him alone and began polishing the counter, even when it didn't need it, like sailors used to ritually holystone wooden decks. She liked to be able to see her face in every inch of the old cherry wood. Every so often she thought she saw Nigel in there, too. It grew very quiet, no cars on the little street, just the background roar of the city to which each had long become accustomed.

Both of them were startled by the sound of the little bell on the door, and voices, and laughter. Two young men entered, dressed fashionably in tight –fitting button-down shirts and jeans under their coats. One was shorter than the other, very buff. The other was slender, more lithely-built, with dark, curly hair. He smiled at Marge.

"Are you Marge Bailey?" he asked politely.

"Yes," she said, putting down her polishing cloth. She would have bet a week's tips these guys were from NYADA.

"Hi, I'm Patrick de Valera and this is Brody Weston. We're friends of Rachel Berry's, and wanted to talk about the song contest here after Thanksgiving."

"Oh hello, "Marge said, shaking Patrick's hand, "I've wanted to meet both of you." She shook Brody's hand as well. "By the way, " she gestured at Geoff, "This is Geoff Fielding, another friend of Rachel's." Geoff shook their hands.

"Oh yeah, you're the NYU guy with the surfer girlfriend, right?" Brody asked genially, but Marge saw him coldly assessing Geoff's surfer hoodie and jeans before freezing a smile on his face.

"That's me." Geoff kept his easy grin, though Marge knew he noticed Brody's look.

"We were just wanting to get an idea of the layout, where we can put the electric piano," Patrick told Marge.

"So, are your songs ready yet?" Marge asked, seemingly innocent, but with a hint of an edge. Brody shrugged.

"Not yet, at least for me. But it's coming along." He winked.

Patrick was more thoughtful. "It's far more difficult than I imagined," he said, gratefully accepting the cup of coffee Marge poured for him, "But I can beat the song Finn wrote, that's for sure." Brody even snickered.

Marge said nothing. The two of them looked around, and agreed where they would put the piano. It was strange; they seemed more like buddies than romantic rivals. And Rachel was right: they didn't seem to think much of Finn, which made Marge wonder if either of them had even an inkling of how much she adored him. She started polishing the counter again, after slyly rolling her eyes at Geoff.

Patrick paid for the coffee, saying, "It was a pleasure meeting you both. See you at the contest, Geoff? "

Marge loved how Geoff smiled brightly, replying "You bet."

"Kawabunga, dude!" Brody joked as they left. Geoff laughed.

"Is that guy for real?" he asked. "I mean, seriously."

"I'm afraid so," Marge said.

"Surely Rachel isn't interested in either of them, though the other guy seems nice enough. "

"Rachel loves Finn," Marge said, "You know that. But she's also human, and isn't sure if Finn will ever come back." She hadn't told Geoff about Finn's decision, nor did she tell anyone else, including Rachel herself. He would be staying with her, at least until the contest, and he wanted his appearance at it to be a complete surprise.

"You can't blame her for seriously considering moving on", she said. "Too bad you're taken. She really likes you, hun." Geoff blushed.

"I like her, too. Maybe I can start scouting out some decent non-NYADA types that can go toe-to-toe with her. Something tells me these two aren't going to make the cut."

"Let's just see how the contest goes, first," Marge said, with a curious look, and started polishing the counter again.

Geoff just shook his head and got back to studying.

**XXXxxxxx**

It was four AM on a Saturday, and she was missing him. She curled into a ball in her bed. It felt warm, but Rachel had learned how much better it felt to have a bed warmed by two lovers. Sometimes she felt she wasn't big enough to warm it all by herself, and appreciated it when Kurt sometimes cuddled with her on cold nights. But it wasn't the same.

She tried willing herself back to sleep, since she had a Frisbee game in Central Park with Geoff at eight o'clock, but to no avail. The ubiquitous city noise no longer bothered her, so it wasn't that. She was just missing her lover something fierce, with no prospects for seeing him in the foreseeable future. True, Finn had sent her that touching text, but it didn't tell her much, and did nothing to ease her aching for him. There were times, when she was at her loneliest, when she fantasized about sleeping with Body or Patrick, but their contempt for Finn always quashed that fantasy. The contest may benefit them more than me, she thought, even if neither of them actually comes up with a decent song. Defeat would only let them know they had to look elsewhere, a luxury Rachel didn't have.

Rachel was also getting sick of the "You have to move on" advice she was getting. No, she certainly did not _have_ to move on. Nor did she _have _to stay single for a while in order to "find out about herself". She knew who she was, thank you very much, and knew what she wanted, and how to get it, too. Well, maybe with _one _exception, hence her sexually-charged loneliness this very morning.

A truck backfiring on the street below actually made her smile, briefly. This sure wasn't Lima.

She did look forward to seeing Geoff, however. Ever since moving to Bushwick with Kurt, Rachel and Geoff hadn't seen each other that much. The last time they had talked, Geoff mentioned Elena was in a bad way sleep-wise, as was he. Sometimes Rachel found herself envying Geoff and Elena's relatively serene love affair. Hers and Finn's seemed so stormy and star-crossed, by comparison. But she kept coming back to that feeling their love affair was epic. Who was it that said no one writes songs about the ones that come easy? * Epic romances had heroes and heroines, and though she had always prided herself on being strong, there were times when Rachel just wished her hero could come back and take care of the crap, you know? The memory of her calling him her hero in the choir room flooded back, warming her heart.

Finally dozing off, she wished she lived in a different age.

**XXXxxx**

The offshore breeze at sunset ruffled the flowers in her hair and her long white dress. Seeing the shadowy figures of seabirds heading home to roost only made her miss him all the more. She could hear the boasting and singing of her suitors coming from the _taverna._

At times she wanted to get up and join in the singing and dancing, because she was young, and full of life, but she knew what it would cost. It would silence her heart, which sang only to his song. Giving up on him would have her living out the rest of her life partially dead. To do so would dishonor what they once had, she knew.

She was comforted by the soft voice of Heimarmene, the spirit of fate and destiny, in her ear. There are signs all about you, my daughter, it said, you have only to look to them to find hope. Relaxing, she hugged her knees, enjoying the scent of pine and the restless sounds of the surf below, and the soft evening light.

It was then that she saw the owl, on the ground nearby, watching her. Sacred memories of walking through the forest at night with him, calling owls and listening to their soft, hooted replies, re-energized her heartsong. It flew away, and she swore she saw it alight on the shoulder of a figure, hidden in shadow among the trees,, with a helmet and spear.

"Who is it?" she called out, but there was no answer. Somehow, though, she knew who it was.

Years later, she would tell her children she had seen Pallas Athena herself, goddess of heroic endeavor, and found the strength to endure.

**A/N: * Logan Echols to Veronica Mars. **


	15. Chapter 15

He went over Callie's apartment after work. They had been grinding away at his song, in between their jobs and performing, and he was pleased with the progress. Callie offered good criticism without actually influencing his creativity—she said she wanted the song to be a gift to Rachel that was completely his. She had a knack for seeing where he would lazily settle for an image or line instead of actually thinking it through and polishing it.

She was sitting on the couch with a beer, deep in thought.

"What are you thinking about?" he asked, going into the kitchen for his own beer.

"I was thinking about our discussions on heroes, and it got me to thinking about my dad."

"Is your dad your hero?" he asked, plopping down on the couch next to her. Her face lit up.

"Oh yeah, he sure is."

Finn knew he was a professor at the University of Chicago.

"He's a biologist, right?"

"Yep, an evolutionary geneticist," she replied, adding with pride, "He's one of the foremost experts on how species form."

"How is he your hero?" Finn asked, truly curious. She sipped her beer, and smiled.

"Early in his career, he was a workaholic, if you can believe it. People think scientists have it so easy. Yet it's extremely competitive, with only limited amounts of grant money for research. Dad had to teach a full load of courses as well as do research and get it published. Most weekends he'd be in his lab checking on experiments or writing grant proposals, mentoring his grad students, and working on papers. But despite all that, he always managed to find time for me. Many times he'd give Mom a break and take me to the lab with him. I got to hang out with the grad students and post docs, even help them in his Fly Room, which had shelves filled with hundreds of milk bottles of strains of _Drosophila_ fruit flies, all carefully labeled as to their pedigree and what genetic markers they possessed. The students even had a small microscope set up for me so I could help examine and tally the markers for him. He'd buy pizza for everybody's lunch, and I had free run of the vending machines."

"Wow,' said Finn, impressed.

"Yeah. He even tried to get the University to let him take me with him to the Galapagos Islands, where he worked with Peter and Rosemary Grant, the rock stars of evolutionary biology, for a month. But the University wouldn't go for it. Bastards." She grinned, nonetheless.

"And you want to know what the best part was, Finn?"

"No, what?"

"Neither he nor Mom ever pressured me on a career. They were both totally cool with my choice of music, and even—if you can believe this—" she poked his arm with her finger. "—supported me when I decided to drop out and go to Madison with Emil." She was tearing up, happily, then touched his arm.

"But that wasn't exactly what I was thinking about when you came in."

"Really?" he asked, "I thought that was a wonderful story."

"Well, I was actually thinking about _his_ hero." She got up and went to her bookshelf and plopped a book in his lap. It was a biography of Charles Darwin.

"Darwin was his hero?" Finn asked. Callie nodded.

"Not just because of his theory, either," she said, "But the way his life unfolded."

"What do you mean?" He noticed her eyes, usually so dark and unreadable, were now softer, more open.

"His life was going nowhere. His father, a rich doctor, sent him to the University of Edinburgh to study medicine, but he couldn't stand the sight of blood, so he ended up going to Cambridge, and not focusing much on anything. His father, giving up on him following in his footsteps, wanted him to join the clergy, and live as a country vicar somewhere, but he knew, deep down, that wasn't what he wanted. He just didn't know what it was, exactly, or how to get it."

She touched his arm. "His own father told him he wouldn't amount to anything in this world."

"So what happened?" He wanted to hear more, also wishing he had stayed awake more in biology. .

"A professor of his got him an appointment on a naval ship that was going to survey some of the coast of South America. People think he was hired as a naturalist, but that wasn't true. It was going to be a five-year voyage, and the captain wanted somebody with breeding and manners to be a sort of companion."

"No way!" Finn laughed. Callie did too.

"Yeah, it wasn't until the ship's actual naturalist left that he took over the duties of collecting different specimens. That took him all over the place, wherever the ship made port. He rode with the gauchos on the pampas of Argentina, climbed the Andes, where he was astonished to find fossils of sea creatures, set nets out to catch fish everywhere they went, and he collected bird and tortoise specimens from the Galapagos Islands when they stopped there."

She stopped and took both of his hands in hers.

"Finn, it was out there, on this voyage of discovery that he found what he loved to do. He would go on to prove his father wrong, and become one of the most influential and respected people in history."

He was stunned, and shook his head for a moment.

"You can be like him, Finn," she said. "Rachel believes in you—you told me that, and you wondered why. I'm telling this to you because having no direction at one point in your life isn't the end, but can actually be the prelude to a more glorious path. She has faith in you. And it's not misplaced, okay?"

He gave Callie a hug. "Thanks for that," he said, moved. "It means a lot." A smile came to his face. "I'm going to miss you." .

"Me too," she replied, "But we're both going to be on an adventure." She told him how she was eager to begin singing classical again. "I mean, rock 'n roll is great, but singing Bach is a whole 'nother universe. Let me show you."

Callie got up and searched her records, selected one, and cued up a cut. The record cover said it was Bach's Cantata #4, "Christ lag in Todesbanden." When he asked what that meant, she smiled.

"It means 'Christ lay by death enshrouded.' It deals with the three days and three nights between His death on the cross and His resurrection. It's an Easter cantata."

A simple repetitive theme began with strings and organ, mournful, yet remote and distant, somehow. Then voices of ethereal beauty emerged, so pure they seemed removed from this world, consumed by the kind of sorrow only immortal beings could feel. Outside, it began to rain. As if the angels themselves were crying, he thought. The sopranos began to soar, held up by the alto voices underneath, until they reached this unbelievably sad but beautiful collective peak, causing Finn's very soul to flood with grief, a holy grief that brought blessed tears to his eyes. And then it ended, with 'hallelujah' over and over, slowly, and he had never heard the word sound so sad in his life.

He looked over at Callie, but she was still under the spell, tears on her cheeks, too, and a beatific smile.

"I love that piece," she said finally, wiping her eyes. Getting up, she pointed at the coffee table. "Get back to work you, while I rustle us up some grub."

At exactly eleven-ten PM, after working steadily for four hours plus one half-hour break, Finn Hudson reached one of the pivotal moments of his life.

The song, his song for her, was finally complete.

**XXXXxxxxx**

It had been a fair wind, picking up in strength as the day progressed, and he could feel his small ship finally back on course. The tips of the waves were whipped into a refreshing spray, a glittering mist that hit his smiling face.

He was almost home. Gods, it had seemed so long.

Whistling from the rigging, the low ruffling every now and then from the blue sail with the golden star, and the creaking of the mast under the strain, as familiar as they were to him now, only reminded him of where he had been. He was determined to look forward now, and watched as the island_, their_ island, grew larger.

It was time to start chanting.


	16. Chapter 16

Geoff liked walking to The Arabica late at night. If he couldn't sleep, at least he was spared the weekend noisiness of the dorms, here on fairly quiet streets, alone with his thoughts. Lord, he was tired, though: he'd spent the last two weeks taking exams and writing, on almost no sleep: the Thanksgiving holiday was only a few days away, this coming Thursday, and he was about at the end of his rope without seeing Elena. The thought of actually sleeping solidly on his non-stop flight to LA on Wednesday thrilled him. Then it would be surfing with Elena in the morning, dinner at Aunt Lainey's in Torrance, then Elena was coming over for dessert. Heaven.

"Hey! Geoff! Wait up!" He was yanked from his thoughts by—he groaned inwardly- Brody Weston, just outside the NYADA dorms.

"Headed to The Arabica?" Body asked, walking quickly up beside him.

"Yeah. Got some heavy editing for Elena to do before Monday."

Brody nodded. "Rachel told me how you two edit each other's work. That's amazing. I needed to just get out and walk for a bit."

They exchanged pleasantries. Brody was saving money by flying to Montana early Thanksgiving Day.

"Ah, so you're not staying?" Geoff asked, knowing Rachel and Kurt had decided to remain in NY and celebrate together.

"Nope," Brody said, shaking his head. He pulled the collar of his pea coat up. "How do you stay warm, man?" he asked, eyeing Geoff's surfer hoodie with a doubtful eye.

"I'm fine," Geoff replied, then, tongue-in-cheek, "My long hair keeps me warm. "

Brody seemed to take the statement seriously, but Geoff was too tired to care. He was oddly glad that Brody wouldn't be sniffing around Rachel. There was just some kind of vibe that emanated from this guy that rubbed Geoff the wrong way. He mentioned it a few days ago to Elena during a Skype session.

"Sounds like Rachel just needs Finn to come back," Elena said, "Kinda like I need you right now." She winked. He was amazed at how she could appear so sexy when she was as exhausted as he was. "Has anyone heard from him?"

"Nope." He shook his head. "Just one text, a while back, with no information, really."

"I wish I could be there for the contest. Maybe I can wrangle with my profs and get my work done so I can fly out the day before. It's the Friday after everybody gets back, right? If neither guy wins, maybe we can take Rachel out, get her mind off it. I'd like to meet her, you know."

Geoff was excited. "Elena, that would be amazing!" She looked so pleased how excited he was to get the chance to be with her. Lord, he loved that woman.

"So, Brody, is your song done?"

Brody laughed. "No, almost. But it'll be ready for the contest."

They approached the diner. The big diner windows revealed Marge inside, talking to the only customer. She looked up as they entered.

"Geoff! Brody! What's up?"

"Geoff smiled and just pulled his laptop out of his backpack. Brody said he came for a coffee to go—"This stuff is addictive!" he said brightly. Marge poured him some, and he waved at Geoff and Marge as he left.

"See you at the contest!"

Both of them rolled their eyes, causing the customer to laugh. They looked at him.

He was tall, with long, shaggy dark hair and a very dark, close-cropped beard. His brown leather flight jacket was worn, jeans faded, and he wore a black Radiohead t-shirt. A copy of a biography of Darwin was on the table.

"What contest?" he asked.

Marge smiled. "Geoff Fielding, this is John Francis Dooley," John stood up and shook Geoff's hand. "John's a student over at Queens College; I know his mom. Geoff's at NYU."

John looked familiar to him somehow, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"Have we met before?" he asked. John thought a moment and shook his head.

"I don't think so. I must have one of those faces, I guess."

"Yeah." Strange, Geoff thought.

"So...about this contest?"

Marge told him about Rachel and Finn's breakup, and Patrick and Brody, and the song contest.

"Wow", John said, "So the winner actually has to write a song that will make Rachel's heart…resonate like the one Finn wrote?" Marge and Geoff both nodded.

"Wouldn't they have to know her fairly well to be able to do that? I mean, this Finn guy asked her to marry him, right? He must have known her pretty well. "

"That's my feeling," Geoff grumbled. "This whole idea is ridiculous."

"I think Rachel knows what she's doing," Marge said. "She has decided she won't settle for anything less than the bar Finn set for her. She told them both up front."

"So there's a good chance neither of these guys will win?" More nods from Marge and Geoff. "She must be something, then, if they are willing to go to this length to win her."

"She's pretty cool," Geoff said, and showed him a picture of Rachel and him on his phone.

John quietly stared at the picture for a moment. "Wow," he said. He looked at Geoff. "So why aren't you writing her a song?"

Geoff laughed. "Two reasons. One, I have no idea how to write a song. And second," he showed John a picture of Elena, "I'm taken."

John gave a low whistle. "Dude…" Then he grinned. "I take it she's not here."

"Yeah," Geoff sighed wistfully, "She's at Berkeley. But we're seeing each other in LA over Thanksgiving. But she may be here the weekend of the contest!"

Marge clapped her hands in delight, "That's wonderful, hun! I want to meet her."

John looked up suddenly.

"Do you think she'd mind if I entered the contest? I've written some songs in my time. And I just broke up with my girlfriend…"

Marge thought for a moment. "I suppose, technically, it's open to anybody who can write a song that makes her heart resonate like Finn's did."

"But she hasn't even met John!" Geoff protested, shaking his head. He turned to John. "No offence, man, but let's not make this any stranger than it already is. Besides, I don't think you're her type. "

An enigmatic look passed over John's face. "So, what is her type? Those NYADA guys? What was Finn like?"

Marge and Geoff answered together: "We've never met him." Geoff showed him the video of "Paradise By the Dashboard Light" on his phone.

"She likes tall guys, then?" John asked, grinning. "Sounds like I have a leg up already."

But Geoff suddenly wasn't listening. He was watching the video again, more closely this time. Then he looked at John, very, very carefully. A slow smile began to creep across his face.


	17. Chapter 17

It felt more like a trip to the gallows than to a contest, Rachel thought. She hardly said a word to Kurt on the J train into Manhattan until they had crossed the Williamsburg Bridge.

"I'm not sure I want to go through with this, " she said, squeezing his hand.

"Yes you do," Kurt said. "You need to settle this for their sakes. I don't think either of them is going to make the cut, and now is the time to tell them to sniff elsewhere."

That did it. She punched his arm, giggling.

"What an awful image," she said.

Kurt chuckled, and she rested her head on his shoulder. "Thanks for coming with me."

"What, and miss the next best thing to American Idol? There was no way I was going to miss this!"

Rachel truly loved Kurt, and, even though she felt for him being apart from Blaine, just living with someone who shared her sensibilities and also her romantic situation made the whole mess tolerable. Living with him had saved her sanity.

"Kurt? "

"Yes?"

"Have I…helped you get through this with Blaine? " He looked at her strangely.

"Why do you ask that?"

"Sometimes I just have to check in on my self-absorption index," she replied, hugging him. "I guess I just need to know if you feel you can rely on me."

Kurt eyed some emo kids across the car, who seemed to be listening in. They turned away.

"We have a tether too, you know," he said. "Ever since that day you offered to sing a duet with me, I've known that I've loved you, Rachel Berry. You're the only person who understands my deep, abiding love for this city. Blaine doesn't; I know. Only you. You got me and accepted me, even though we were rivals, and I will always regret treating you like dogshit when you ran for Senior Class President ."

"No, Kurt," she said urgently, "I was selfish and wrong to do that."

"That doesn't excuse how I treated you," he said, and she could feel his sincerity in her heart. "A friend would have taken the time to find what what was behind your decision first before acting like a shit." He gave her the most understanding look she had ever felt from him at that moment. "Despite your formidable ambition, Rachel Berry, you have the kindest heart I know, other than my dad, of course." She gave him a tear-filled look in return. "I love living with you as much as I love you, and yes, I know I can rely on you."

In the last few minutes before their stop at the Canal Street station, he regaled her with a story about Isabelle's ridiculous miniature dachshund, Argos. "He's even more neurotic than me, but he is loyal, I have to give him that," he laughed.

The Arabica was just a few blocks from the Canal Street station. They walked, arm-in arm in the cold, late-night air. She was dressed in skinny jeans, heels, and a thick cream sweater under her black pea coat, while Kurt remained ever-stylish in black jeans and a striped shirt, with a black coat, all under a Tyrolean hat.

She saw Patrick and Brody inside, talking to Jenna, a keyboard player from NYADA , who was twiddling with her Roland electric piano. Geoff was there, too, talking to a tall girl with a short blonde haircut. Could that be Elena? Marge was serving coffee to a customer at the far end of the counter.

"Ready?" Kurt asked.

"I wish Finn was here, " she whispered, holding on to his arm tightly.

"I know, Rachel," he said, and kissed her cheek. "I wish he was, too."

Marge looked up as they entered. She clapped her hands.

"Well, everyone, it looks like we're all here!"

Brody and Patrick walked up, smiling.

"Ready to choose?" Brody asked, grinning.. Patrick just looked nervous, but kissed her on the cheek.

Rachel drew close to both of them, and lowered her voice.

"I truly didn't want it to come to this," she said, honestly. "But it was the only way to be fair to both of you."

She felt the tether stronger than ever at that moment, and, for maybe half a second, wished it was gone, and that she could just enjoy life as a college student, instead of waiting for that ship in her dream to come in. At that moment she again felt that overwhelming kinship with all of the women in history who paced the widow's walks, stood on quays, or sat in glades overlooking the water, gazing out to sea, with only the power of love to keep them until their men came home. That love was all she had to sustain her right now.

Patrick's hand was on her shoulder. "We both appreciate your honesty," he said with a smile.

"Yeah," Brody added, "You're the most honest woman I've ever met."

Rachel lowered her head. "Thank you," she said, softly.

She left them and hurried over to Geoff, beaming. The girl next to him smiled shyly.

"Geoff, is this Elena?"

He nodded. "Rachel Berry, meet Elena Bosaic." Rachel shook her hand.

"I'm so pleased to finally meet you, and honored you'd come to my…um…contest."

Elena laughed. She was even more striking than her picture, but very approachable. She was dressed simply, in a blue Berkeley sweatshirt and jeans. "I wouldn't miss this for the world," she said. Rachel noticed how relaxed both of them were; at least somebody was getting some rest.

Marge came up and touched her shoulder, then gave her a hug. "Ready, hun?"

Rachel sighed, then nodded. But then she noticed the customer sitting in the far corner of the diner, facing away from them, reading a book. He had long, dark hair, which partially obscured his face, and a dark beard. He was wearing an old brown leather flight jacket. She looked at Marge and cocked her head towards him at the same time. "Marge, is your customer okay with all this? I hope we haven't put him out."

Marge shook her head. "He's fine. I already asked, but thanks, hun."

"Okay, Marge, I'm ready."

Marge clapped her hands for attention. Rachel noticed the customer didn't even react. She turned her eyes to Brody and Patrick.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Marge announced, "First Up for The Singing Contest, determined by coin flip, is Brody Weston"

Rachel clapped her hands enthusiastically to honor the art. After all, a song had been written. Others seemed a tad less enthusiastic.

Brody stepped to the microphone. He smiled at Rachel and said, "My song is called "Transition". A nod to Jenna.

The melody was lively, upbeat, yet surprisingly complex. Brody moved perfectly in time, always looking at her. It was a song about transformation, how love facilitated changes, creating a different person, and celebrating it. Rachel loved the song, noticing how the others seemed to enjoy it as well.

When he was finished, Brody bowed to enthusiastic applause, especially from Rachel, who came up and kissed his cheek. At first he took that as a good sign, and handed the microphone over to Patrick, and joined Rachel at the counter to watch. But every additional second that went by after that told him his song hadn't even come close to moving Rachel the way Finn's song had. He felt it in her demeanor, in the way she remained…separate. And, to his everlasting credit, Brody leaned closer and whispered, "At least I tried."

Rachel looked at him proudly. "Yes, you did. It was a beautiful song. It rang true. I'll always treasure that." He squeezed her hand, and turned to give his full attention to Patrick, who was looking ridiculously nervous. Her heart went out to him.

His song was called "Lead". Musically, it was a gentle tango, and told the story of a man who loves a woman so much he always wants to let her lead when they dance, because she leads his heart. It was a gorgeous song, truly, and Rachel stood up applauding wildly before anyone else did, but the rest soon joined in, even the customer, she noticed, who had put down his book and turned his head. His hair still obscured his face, though, and then he returned to his reading. She rushed up and took Patrick's hands, kissing his lips lightly, telling him how moving the song was.

But he too saw the verdict in her eyes, that the admiration for his song was artistic, not romantic. And to his credit as well, Patrick bowed his head and kissed her cheek, saying, "Thanks for the shot, Rachel." She hugged him closely, murmuring how much she admired the song, and that he deserved someone to love like the woman in the song.

She loved how Kurt, Geoff and Elena started to rush up and congratulate Brody and Patrick, even though it was clear what the results were. But Marge stopped them.

"Wait!" She exclaimed. "We're not done yet. It turns out we have one more contestant…"

There was a stunned silence, as people started looking at each other. Marge chuckled, and gestured to the customer.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is John Francis Dooley, and he asked if he could enter the contest with a song of his own."

Just as he was about to turn and stand, Rachel noticed his book, deliberately turned upside-down in front of him, so that the spine was visible to her. Everything stopped, as a million emotions ran through her at once, like a powerful current. The book was James Joyce's _Finnegan's Wake. _

And she knew.

She knew he would be tall, taller than anyone here, and his eyes would bore into hers like no other, and not even the beard would obscure that killer half-smile . And she knew he had come back for her.

It took every bit of her acting ability to maintain a straight face, though she wondered if anyone else noticed. Kurt must have, but she could see he was playing it cool as well.

"Well… Mr Dooley. I'm surprised, but honored to hear your song."

"I don't have any music for him! " Tiny, elfin Jenna protested.

"No need," John said. "It's _a capella_."

Patrick and Brody looked confused and a tad intimidated as the tall man moved past them to the front of the diner. His size and rough outfit emanated menace, though his face, underneath the beard and hair, seemed pleasant.

"Does your song have a title?" Marge asked.

He gave the question a moment's thought, and shook his head. "I hope that's okay."

Rachel nodded. "Of course! Start whenever you're ready."

John Francis Dooley stood, feet apart, hands clasped behind him, head bowed slightly. His eyes closed, and, after a moment's preparation, he began to sing in a low voice.

The meter was slow, and stately, like the rhythm of the tides and the waves. A sense of timelessness enveloped everybody in the diner; they could just as well have been gathered round a fire, listening, enraptured, to the verses of a blind poet, long ago. His voice seemed to come from another world.

He sang of wind and privation, waves as big as mountains, glorious sunsets and vicious storms, angry gods, monsters, and a ship with a blue sail and a golden star. And he sang of a love, saturating his blood like salt from the sea, a love at once ancient and fresh. There was longing, longing for her, longing to return, and aching for the courage to do so, fear and despair, but always love, fervent devotion, sacred hope, an island and a girl, anemones in her hair, his home. Always love, spanning millennia, defying gods; always love, clawing its way home across the wine-dark sea. Always love. Always.

He finished, standing still, head still down, as his primal chanting ended, echoes fading quickly into the corners of the diner. In the cathedral of her heart, however, his verses echoed still, over and over and over, suffused with resonance, never ending, like the rich tones of an immortal's harp. She felt rooted to where she was standing- she had been standing for the entire song- until he lifted his head and matched her gaze with his own. All sound stopped; the external universe beyond them dissolved away, just as it did once before, and she could move again, but only towards him as he moved towards her, because only until their lips met again could the rest of the world be allowed to catch up and exist once more.

He bent down, pulling her to him, as she strained upwards to meet his lips, her hands cradling his face. A glorious flood of sensation flowed between them: her tears upon his cheek, the taste of Kenyan coffee and banana bread, the warmth of each other's lips, the soft brush of his beard upon her face, his hair entwined in her fingers, the toned muscles of her back under his hands, and the mingling of their familiar scents. Every nerve, every synapse in her body seemed to fire off at once.

They eventually had to come up for air, and as their lips parted, the world rematerialized again: sounds rushed back, and images of stunned people appeared before their eyes. She pressed her cheek against his chest, and gave a dazed smile.

"I think we have a winner," she announced, breathlessly


	18. Chapter 18

Everyone was talking at once, as if Finn had just taken off a magic ring and appeared out of thin air. Brody, who realized it _was_ Finn during the performance, was immediately angry.

"What the hell is going on, Rachel?" he demanded. "Are you making fun of Patrick and me?"

Patrick just looked bewildered. "This is Finn?"

"Now, now," Marge interjected. "Rachel had no idea this was happening. Finn decided to come incognito so that his presence wouldn't overly influence Rachel during _your_ songs."

"That's right, guys." Finn spoke up. "I wanted to make sure you had a fair shot."

That seemed to satisfy Patrick, but Brody would have none of it. He looked bitterly at Rachel.

"This is all bullshit!" he spat, grabbed his coat, and stormed out.

Finn was about to run out after him when Rachel held his arm.

"It's okay, Finn," she said. "He'll calm down. I will talk to him later. "

Patrick agreed. "I'll talk to him, as well." He shook Finn's hand. "Congratulations," he said, "It's good to finally meet you. That was a hell of a song. And thanks for trying to level the playing field. " He kissed Rachel on the cheek. "See you in class".

Rachel hugged him warmly, murmuring "Thanks for understanding."

He smiled wanly, gave a curt nod, and helped Jenna with her piano. The two of them waved and left.

"Coffee on the house" Marge announced, bringing out a tray of banana bread. Everyone gathered together at the counter, and she told the story of her trip to Lima. Rachel noticed her hands in the pocket of her apron, knowing she was rubbing Nigel's picture. It turned out Finn stayed with Marge over the Thanksgiving holiday, and met with some of her friends, faculty at Tisch and at Queens College. Both showed interest after seeing the Nationals video.

"You're thinking of applying to Tisch? " Rachel couldn't contain her excitement. Finn nodded, adding, " and Queens College, too. It has the Aaron Copeland School of Music."

He gave a shy grin. "I even have a job lined up. In a tire shop in Brooklyn." Then he paused and looked down slightly. "And an apartment."

Despite everything he had done lately, Rachel still felt she knew her Finn, and she knew where that came from—he didn't want to appear to have presumed anything about her, and it made her heart soar. Even if she had not been ready to live with him, even if he had lost the contest, he had just showed her he was here to stay, whatever the cost.

"What, you don't want to live with me?"

"No-of course-I mean—" he responded immediately, a remnant of the old inarticulateness when under stress. But then he saw her wide smile, and sighed.

"I want to live with you the rest of my life," he said softly, "Even if all I ever become is a hot dog vendor."

"We need you to live with us, big brother," Kurt interjected, "Because I have list of projects requiring heavy lifting." Everyone laughed, but Rachel's heart went out to Kurt, knowing how he hurt.

Her decision was better, this time; she had better information. She knew, this time, what they _both_ wanted.

"I want to live with you, too, baby," she said. "Time for you to come home."

**XXXxxxx**

The older man on the subway was on his way home, from a jazz club in Manhattan that he had frequented since he was a young man. The club played a part in several major events of his life, from the celebration of his homecoming from Vietnam, to meeting his wife, the wedding, and, more recently, the only place he could mourn her properly. He had lived in Bushwick so long that he considered the J train his own; therefore, he was entitled to listen in on the conversation of the young couple seated across the car from him.

The boy was tall, with dark, shaggy long hair and beard, dressed roughly in jeans, t-shirt and leather jacket. The girl was tiny by comparison, dressed more stylishly. He loved the way they sat, side-by-side, leaning into each other, holding hands. They were talking earnestly in low tones. But he knew the girl was having an inner struggle, wanting to say something. Eventually, she spoke.

""Were you alone in Lima? " She asked. "I mean, did you meet somebody?"

He somehow knew what the boy would say. He replied immediately: "Yes. I met someone. Her name is Callie, and she was a singer with the band I was in."

Interestingly, there seemed to be no tension between them. The girl processed the information, then leaned closer to him, asking a question in tones too low for his old ears to hear. But he knew what she asked.

"Yes," the boy answered again. Anticipating her next question, the boy kept it honest: "We didn't love each other, Rachel. We were just very lonely, and I was lost." He gently tipped her face up to him. "She helped me write the song that brought me back to you." Then he leaned very close to her and said something the man couldn't make out. Rachel reached up and placed his hand on her cheek, simply nodding.

"He's telling the truth, you know," the man said.

He originally hailed from the Mississippi Delta, the son of a sharecropper and a seamstress. He and his two brothers grew up in a ramshackle house at the end of a muddy track; he had known poverty. Even at a young age, though, he knew he was a bit different. Ty Jones had "The Gift", as his aunt Velma used to call it. He had a knack for predicting storms, and had he been white, could probably have worked for the local newspaper. He could also, unerringly, spot liars, and occasionally, predict the future. This came in particularly handy when, as a Marine in Vietnam during the Tet Offensive, he probably saved many lives in his platoon with his visions. His buddies protected him almost as much as they protected their beloved Navy corpsman.

The girl turned towards him, but showed no annoyance. Instead, she smiled widely and asked him if he was psychic.

"That I am, young lady," he replied, tipping his hat, "Just like you." Amused at their surprised reaction, he leaned forward on his walking stick, and introduced himself.

"I'm Tiresias Jones, pleased to make your acquaintance."

"Mr Jones, pleased to meet you, too. This is Finn Hudson, and I'm Rachel Berry." She looked intrigued. "So you think I'm psychic?"

He nodded. "You've thought that about yourself for a long time."

"Whoa—" Finn said, "He's right. You used to say that in high school."

Rachel nodded. "But it's only ever been vague stuff."

"Like a ship with a blue sail and a golden star?" Tiresias asked, raising an eyebrow.

The two of them stared at him. Rachel finally spoke.

"Y-yes. Finn and I both recently dreamed—or thought about that image. You know about that?"

"I can see it before my eyes, " he replied, adding, "Have either of you ever thought about what it means?"

Finn looked thoughtful. "We've always felt a kind of tether between us, I know that."

"You've been on a long journey," Tiresias said to him. "A voyage. A voyage that led you back to her, to where you belong. Don't ever forget that. It's the last such voyage apart you will ever make."

He could tell each wanted to know more; everyone did when they found out about his gift. But his station was coming up, and he felt a calmness and certainty about them, and even though he could also see a major crisis in their future, they would weather it just fine. No need to burden them with that now. What mattered was they were where they belonged to be, with each other, of that he was certain, as certain as he was that ruined building in Hue was booby-trapped to the rafters, all those years ago.

He stood up slowly as the train slowed down for the station. He placed a hand on Rachel's shoulder.

"He loves you more than anything in this world. And he isn't afraid, anymore."

Rachel smiled through tears.

"It's been wonderful meeting you," he said, and left through the train's sliding door.

As the train pulled away, Tiresias looked back to see them, still sitting together, leaning close.

**XXXxxx**

They were finally alone. Kurt told them he was staying at the office, where he claimed, over their protests, that he had a place to sleep. Rachel made him promise to let them take him to brunch later, which he grudgingly did, and hugged both of them genuinely, though both knew his heart was raw and aching.

She asked Finn if he wanted a drink, and he surprised her by asking if she had any bourbon. It turned out Kurt had acquired a nice bottle of Maker's Mark, so she poured them both glasses, despite the fact she had never tasted bourbon before. He took off his jacket, and Rachel quivered at the sight of him, still. She joined him on the couch, and they clinked the cut crystal highball glasses, and took sips. It had an oddly smooth, almost sweet taste, which surprised her—Brody had let her taste his scotch once, and she hated it. But this seemed so…Finn: mellow, yet strong.

In the dim light, she felt his gaze burning into her. A deeply-suppressed joy, an emotion she had not felt for some time, made her feel like she did before the first time he ever kissed her, before the first time they had ever made love: when all she knew was that overwhelmingly electric feeling that, somehow, despite her loneliness and isolation, she had still managed to find the love of her life. To her delight, she actually felt shy.

"I want to kiss you again," he said quietly, assertively, sensing it, wanting her to know he was at home with her this time, that he had no intention of leaving her ever again, and she replied by putting down her glass and letting him lean in close.

It wasn't like the kiss at the diner, which was enormous and cathartic. And it wasn't like the kisses they ever had in high school, either. It was far more intimate than she had ever thought possible with him, as if he had been holding himself back. Perhaps his insecurities had been so deep-seated that he had never been able to fully express his true desire for her. Her heart was pounding with the delicious anticipation of the unknown, and she almost screamed in joy when the line from "Faithfully" about the joy of rediscovery flooded her consciousness.

She loved everything about it: the confident insistence, the now-delicious taste of the whisky, the feel of his arms holding her tightly. Everything had changed since that night he slipped away, and she didn't know how much of it was due to him meeting that Callie girl, but it didn't matter. Finn now seemed to actually _fit_ into his masculinity, and in doing so made her realize that she hadn't been able to fully fit into her femininity, either. Rachel could tell how much he was enjoying her softness coupled with her own assertiveness, telling him what she wanted.

And he surprised her still.

"Dance with me," he said, his face buried in her neck.

She sat up. "You want to dance with me?" she asked, hoping she had heard him correctly.

"Yeah," Finn panted. And got up, rustling through his jacket pocket for his iPod, gulping more of the bourbon. He riffled through the songs, and set it into the speaker dock. Then he came for her, holding out his hand, pulling her to him as an acoustic guitar began strumming, and a bass carefully paced out the timing, as soft drums entered. It felt like a boat on the waves. Then the smooth purity of Van Morrison's voice peacefully set the mood:

_**We were born before the wind**_

_**Also younger than the sun**_

_**Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic **_

They moved together, not perfectly, as NYADA had taught her to come to expect, but _surely_, which Finn had never truly been able to master—until now. She rested her head on his chest (even with heels she couldn't quite pull off resting completely on his shoulder), and reveled in the closeness of their synchronized bodies.

_**Hark, now I hear the sailors cry**_

_**Smell the sea and feel the sky**_

_**Let your soul and spirit fly into the mystic **_

His song, still resounding in her heart, came to mind, and Rachel simply melted into his and Morrison's imagery, seasoned with her dreams.

_**And when that fog horn blows I will be coming home**_

He gently pressed her to him at the word "home", and she simply wanted to cry at the change in him, how he now understood completely how much she loved him, and, more importantly, how he deserved to love her.

_**And when that fog horn blows I want to hear it**_

_**I don't have to fear it**_

_**I want to rock your gypsy soul**_

_**Just like way back in the days of old**_

_**Then magnificently we will float into the mystic **_

Oh, how her soul and spirit did fly! And as the saxophones entered with an irresistible swing, Rachel felt him leading her across the living room floor.

_**And when that fog horn blows you know I will be coming home**_

This time Morrison sensually caressed the word "home", and she felt Finn pull and caress her body exactly in sync; it was the most incredibly erotic moment in her young life.

_**And when that fog horn whistle blows I got to hear it**_

_**I don't have to fear it**_

_**I want to rock your gypsy soul**_

_**Just like way back in the days of old**_

_**And together we will float into the mystic **_

Finn caressed her again at the word "together", and he dipped her at the following line:

_**Come on, girl...**_

They floated as the music began to wind down, with Morrison finally exclaiming, as if the song were about a couple about to make love :

_**Too late to stop now…**_

And the singer was right. He picked her up and carried her to bed. Later, as she drifted between the worlds of sleep and consciousness, pressed against him, she murmured that he was her hero for the second time in their life together, and she smiled when he told her that she was his everything and it was then and only then, that Rachel Berry _ever_ surrendered.

**XXXxxxx **

The nymphs of the forest tittered amongst themselves, as the young couple slowly walked together up the trail towards the glade. The boasting and singing from the _taverna_ had stopped; the nymphs weren't quite sure if the suitors had simply been thrown out or slain, now that _he_ had returned to her.

In the harbor below, the ship with the blue sail and the golden star proudly rode at anchor, bedecked with flowers from the townspeople for their returned hero. Her hero.

The sun was in full stride across the sky, whitecaps dancing on the blue water. Her heart beat faster, finally awakened, as she held his hand. Entering the glade, they laid out a fleece on the grass, drank wine, and ate the bread and cheese she had brought. The dancing sunlight reflected off the water, only to re-emerge from her eyes as she smiled shyly for him. The entire island seemed to be holding its breath: birds stopped singing, the wind dropped, and the surf became muffled, because it was time. She slipped off her dress for him, and he pulled off his tunic for her.

It was as the gods ordained. That which should never have been torn asunder became whole again, and they made love beneath the adoring sky. The very soil of the island became consecrated again: the vines would soon be heavy with grapes, the fields awash with gold and the people rejoiced; for years hence the fishermen of the island enjoyed an unheard of bounty.

Afterwards they lay together, entwined, kissed by the sun and the bracing air. He pledged his life to her again there, amongst the flowers; she promised her eternal love to him.

And the eagle, circling high above , finally turned away, satisfied, leaving them lying together, in their sacred glade, on their little island, nestled peacefully in the bosom of the wine-dark sea.

**Και τι σκέφτηκε πολύ, αυτός ευγενικά τόλμησε** – Homer, _The Odyssey_

(And what he greatly thought, he nobly dared)

**FIN. **

**A/N: Lyrics are from "Into the Mystic", by Van Morrison. I'd like to thank all my readers. It's an honor to have you read and enjoy my writing. Special thanks to fellow writer henriettaline (whose stories are a must-read) for our discussions on epic love, Homer, and other topics. And, last but not least, I want to thank Penelope and Odysseus (Ulysses, in Latin), whose 3,000 year-old love affair still resonates today. **


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